Sherlock Holmes v The 21st Century
by Sherlock Holmes Skittle
Summary: Rhee again. After a disaster at the local library, Holmes becomes stranded in my non-literary world. Now the race is on to save it from one of the most notorious villains in literary history before he takes over. Fourth and final part of the trilogy.
1. This Is The Brilliant Sherlock Holmes

**Sherlock Holmes v. The 21****st**** Century**

**This Is The Brilliant Sherlock Holmes**

_**Grand and General Disclaimer**__: I do not own anything. That's really all I need to say, but I just need to elaborate. I don't know if it's a law that fan fiction has to have a disclaimer, but I guess it's a prevention for law suits and litigation. (Cool word, huh? 'Litigation' actually means a law suit, so that was kind of redundant, but who cares.) It's kind of like a 'Harmful if Swallowed' note on a basketball. You would think that _Fan_ fiction posted on _Fan_ fiction dot net would be fiction written by _fans_ and __not__ by the original author, especially if the author's dead, but I guess people still try to swallow basketballs to sue Basketball manufacturers. Or maybe they swallow basketballs because they're dumb enough to think that they should try. So, I don't own anything._

_On the opposite end of the disclaimer, I own _moi_: Rhiannon Phan. I can't imagine what it would be like to be owned, borrowed and traded around like you FF writers do with these characters. And so, I own myself. Wait. Who's this Sherlock Holmes Skittle? What the crap? That's the dumbest name I've ever heard. Must be some nobody loser. Hm. I own me, no one else does. And I guess technically I can claim the Shadow Beasts and my antagonist because they haven't been published, except my antagonist is real and he created the Shadow Beasts. But since they don't exist anymore except for in this bit of Fan Fiction, I get to (or have to) claim them as my own._

_Once again, I don't like putting disclaimers all over my work, so if you read an update and see no disclaimer, come back to this chapter and re-read this excessively long opening. If I suddenly inherit or earn or purchase ownership of __any__ of the characters in this work, you readers will be the third to know after my roommates and my family. Don't worry. You're still high on my list. But since I have absolutely no money, I don't see that happening any time soon. Sooo. . . I don't own anything. Except me. And my deerstalker. Holmes wants to burn it, but I hid it so well that even I can't find it._

Anyway, on with the show! Welcome to the fourth and final part of my trilogy known as The Adventures of Rhiannon Phan!

* * *

I desperately wished I could go to sleep. Snape's potion had kept me up since the day I returned. Seventeen days later, I was still at the same energy level and completely unable to function. Within three days, I was fired from both my jobs and most everyone was avoiding me because I had a tendency to start talking and not shut up. I mean, I do that already, but this was extreme. Before long, I started repeating myself, and I desperately wished I could go to sleep. 

On this day, Patience was wearing so thin, it was tearing at the seams. After I started once again on how I had to save the world, Mom snapped. "Go save the world, then," she said as she stole my keys, threw me out of the house, and locked all the doors. "And don't come back until you've calmed down." I definitely could have broken back in, but I was scared of Mom.

Where do I go? Thunder rumbled in the distance, warning me of the rain to come. So I started running. Before long, the rain was pouring and I was desperate for cover. Fortunately, the closest place I could get into was the library; a place I usually feel calm.

I love my library. It's got to be the biggest in the world. Or the state, and that's not saying much considering where I live. I still love my library. It has five floors and is laid out in a circular pattern. The first floor holds the information. Right in the center, you can look up and see the rest of the floors, and they can see you from the balconies. After some guy tried to commit suicide by jumping off the top floor into the foyer, pexi-glass had to be put up on the fifth floor.

The place I needed to be was the third floor. I would find Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's work there. As I made my way up, wringing out my clothes as I went, I was struck with a familiar pang. I missed the old man. Sure he was dead, but I missed him after that first adventure in Victorian London. Maybe he would know how to save the world when our antagonist finally made his move.

I made my way by the familiar path to Doyle's books. Three shelves of multiple copies of those stories. I pulled one book out and skimmed through the pages just to make sure he was still there. Yep, there were words in there – coherent words. He was safe, just like every day since Harry Potter. I couldn't miss a day; seventeen days safe.

But what about the rest of the pages? I flipped through the pages, back and forth, back and forth, making sure the words couldn't trick me. When I was finally sure that Holmes was safe in his book, I snapped it shut and returned it to its shelf.

But what about the rest of the books? I knocked all the books off the shelf onto the floor and went through them book by book, story by story, page by page until I was scouring each word for something wrong. I have no idea what I was supposed to find, but I kept looking. When I couldn't find anything, I knocked down the next shelf and did the same thing. Still, I could find nothing.

But there was another shelf. Unfortunately, I wasn't tall enough to reach it. Had I been a Mary Sue at the time, I would have been able to, but since it's kind of pointless to cry over something I'll never have, I won't complain.

"Need some help?" a rich, deep voice asked.

I turned and found an admittedly much taller man with silver eyes, red-black hair, and a haughty smile I knew had nasty intentions. The hyped up part of me told me to run for my life, but the OCD part said, "Yes, please." Stupid OCD. Always gets what it wants.

"I'm Dorian, by the way. Dorian Black," he said as he handed me my book. "It's great to finally meet you in person, Rhiannon."

My heart dropped into my stomach and bounced back. "How do you know my name?"

"How can I not? You've been screaming it all over the place."

"You sent out the Shadow Beasts?"

"Is that what you call them? Not bad."

"You tried to kill me _and_ Holmes _and_ Doyle--"

"Do you want to talk about this over coffee?"

I lost it completely. "_**NO!!!!**_" And using my book, I hit him as hard as I could, but it never came close. It bounce off some sort of invisible force field and flew away.

Dorian laughed, but he was _not_ amused. With one simple, cold move, he grabbed the hair on the back of my head and smashed my face into the book shelves before dropping me on the ground. He must have thought I was knocked out, but no. I was awake enough to watch him call his men and say, "Activate the Bridge. Empty the library." Uh oh. That's not good.

The shelves started shaking and the books cascaded down on top of me, burying me completely. Finally, I blacked out after a sizeable book hit me squarely on the head.

* * *

"Ma'am, are you alright? Are you hurt?"

I opened my eyes and saw light breaking through the books. That voice. I knew it well. There was a face in the light. "Holmes?"

"You! Help me dig her out!" he ordered. I guess he didn't hear me. Either way, I was quickly unburied by some stranger and Holmes, who must have left in a hurry because he was wearing a dressing gown rather than a coat. The stranger wasn't particularly noticeable, except he was about as tall as Holmes and wore a worn black leather jacket. He had a crew cut, an angular face, and a strange age in his bright eyes. "Ma'am, could you give me your name?" Holmes asked as he pressed a handkerchief to my forehead.

"Am I bleeding?" I tried to sit up, but both Holmes and the new guy pushed me down.

"Yes," the stranger said. "You're probably going to need stitches."

"I don't have time for stitches. Dorian just emptied the library." I tried to sit up again, but was pushed back down.

"You need to calm down." Holmes has a way with patronization that I hate.

"'When you broke your foot, did that keep you from running around the Quidditch field?" I snapped, finally succeeding in sitting up. "No! I was your freakin' crutch!"

"Rhiannon? What are you doing here?"

"This is _my_ world. What are _you_ doing here?"

For several moments, Holmes couldn't say or do anything except to press his handkerchief to my bloody forehead. I took over and decided to break the silence. "How is your foot, by the way?"

"Fine. And Snape's potion?"

"Seventeen days, still going strong. And what about you?" I asked the stranger.

"Fantastic."

"Spectacular. Now what has Dorian done to my library?"

Quite a bit, apparently. The library was a literal zoo. Fiction was filled with various people, all close to ordinary, except for the few covered in blood that were either doctors of psychopathic serial killers. Then Fantasy and Sci Fi threw the entire place out of balance. Robots with zebras, magicians with aliens, pirates fighting with ninjas. . . you name it, they were there. They spanned decades and centuries of writing from my time and theirs. The entire place, from the first floor to the fifth, was packed. I was lucky to be caught in a bubble. Everyone else was spilling out into the streets.

Then came a harsher blow. From every door and opening, Shadow Beasts marched in – more like Shadow Soldiers – and systematically took over the characters and poor library patrons alike. From our third floor vantage point, we were subjected to the entire process.

"Time to go," said I. "Ideas?"

"Just talk to them," said the stranger. "We don't know them and they'll probably listen."

We gave him the strangest look. It was all Holmes and I could do to keep from bursting out into uncontrollable laughter. "There's a water fountain we could use," Holmes eventually suggested.

"Too slow. We need to find someone with silver."

"So you've met them before," the stranger deduced. "They're after you, aren't they."

"Yes, we have," Holmes confirmed. "That's a very odd conclusion," he said in admiration.

"How is that odd?" I asked. "It's right."

"Precisely."

A bookcase away, we heard a roar and a howl. I looked through one of the shelves to see something big and furry and scary. A man trying his best not to turn into a werewolf. There wasn't a full moon or anything, so I don't know why he was transforming. But still, he was holding onto a gun with silver bullets and a silver headed cane. Perfect.

"This may not be the best of ideas," Holmes said on my right as he looked through.

"Silver won't hold him for long," the stranger said on my left.

"He's going to kill someone if he's not stopped," I reasoned, "so let's shoot him in the foot, take his silver, and get out of here so we can kill Dorian."

"You're a very violent young woman," Holmes commented. Nonetheless, Holmes pulled a revolver out of his pocket and emptied a few rounds into the guy's kneecaps. Ouch.

"Okay, you shouldn't be talking." I, being the only one small enough to get through, then squeezed through the bookshelf out to the other side and grabbed his gun and his cane. "I think we're good to go."

I wanted to go downstairs and beat my way through, but Holmes had other plans. He insisted we go out the fire exit, and by 'insisted,' I mean, 'dragged me out by my ear.' I didn't get it because I wanted to kill them, and I told Holmes so.

"The characters are still alive, Rhiannon. What is _wrong_ with you?" Holmes asked incredulously. "You _never_ used to act like this."

Good question. Before I could even attempt to contemplate how my energy had changed my life, the stranger, who was still following us, started screaming, "DISNEY!" True to his word, there was Jungle Book,Lion King, and Night at the Museum charging down the hall after him. We weren't far behind.

"Why did Dorian release the movies too?!" I shouted as I tore down the hall.

"He didn't!" Holmes replied.

"I_hate_ Disney merchandising!"

The fire escape alarm was already going off from so many other characters going out the same way. We burst out the door and came fact to face with a giant robot that stood in the parking lot and peered in inquisitively. I recognized him immediately and swore to kill the nimrod who novelized the live action Transformers movie. Seeing as how the stairs were blocked anyway, I decided to use the nimrod's stupidity to our advantage. "Hey, could we get some help down?" I asked it.

"I'm not some sort of elevator," he replied, rather peeved. No biggie. I climbed over the railing, judged the distance downward, calculated my chances of surviving a three story drop, and jumped. Holmes and the stranger were taken by surprise, but greatly relieved to see a giant metal hand shoot out and catch me. Seeing how well it worked out for me, they shrugged off any sanity and followed suit to be caught by the robot's other hand.

Meet Optimus Prime: glorified elevator.

After being set down gently, I emptied out the silver bullets from my gun and handed one to Optimus. "Whatever you do, don't lose that. It'll protect you from those Shadow Soldier things."

He didn't even have to say anything to tell me how weird he thought I was. Gigantic alien robot versus a ghost that can be killed by water and silver. Who would you put your money on? Whatever. All I know is that if I'm going to be hunted down by a possessed character, I don't want the character to be a gigantic alien robot that won't die no matter how many missiles you shoot at it.

Across the parking lot, Hydra encountered several Shadow Beasts. For a moment, the heads fought back, snapping and snarling, but the Shadows were stronger. Suddenly, the dragon was writhing against the power of seven Shadow Bests and losing miserably. Optimus saw this and quickly accepted the silver bullet.

"Silver and water," Holmes told him, answering his unspoken question. The Shadow Beasts were coming dangerously close and Holmes decided that it was time to go. "Do you own one of these vehicles?"

"I ran here. In the rain. Funny it's not raining anymore. I _did_ leave it here a week ago, though." But that was kind of dumb and useless because 1. It was in the center of the Shadow Beast army who were marching in like Nazi Shadow Soldiers, and 2. It was currently being torn to pieces by a rogue flock of seagulls. I _still_ have no idea where they came from and have no intention of finding out. "I guess we'll have to run."

A powerful engine burst into life behind me. Holmes sat proudly in the driver's seat of a beautiful silver, Italian designed sports car. Squealing in delight, I popped into the front seat next to him. And then our new friend squeezed in next to me, which made it awkward for Holmes and me, but I guess I couldn't complain because there was no back seat and we couldn't leave him to die.

I waved goodbye to Optimus as Holmes burned rubber and tore out of there.


	2. This Is My Angry Mother

**Sherlock Holmes v. The 21****st**** Century**

**This Is My Angry Mother**

Remember how I once said I like back doors? I like back exits too. And Holmes was a scarier driver behind a wheel than with reins in his hands, partly because he had no idea what he was doing. Sure he knew how to hot-wire the darn thing, but drive on the right side of the road? That was a stretch.

Out on the road, I realized three things. First, the rain had stopped. Completely. There weren't even puddles left over, like it hadn't rained in days. Second, we were being chased by something. Something big. Something big with shiny guns and explosives. Or maybe the explosives came from the tank behind it because I'm pretty sure the big thing was an urple dragon. Ew. Third, the sky was still dark and cloudy, like it should still be raining. What stopped the rain? Probably Dorian so he could unleash his mighty army.

Holmes skidded out into the mid-day traffic of one of my town's busier streets. We were so lucky we weren't hit. The other cars, however, swerved right into trouble. I was screaming, "Right! Right! Right!" but Holmes found it necessary to drive straight through the oncoming traffic. It was definitely amazing how he wove his way around them. At some point, though, I had to wrench the steering wheel away from Holmes and get back with the flow of traffic with a side comment about how this is America and we drive on the_right_ side of the road.

A siren started wailing in the background. I turned around to find a police car with several other muscle cars and pickups in hot pursuit of us. "We have chasers," I announced. For some reason, Holmes took it as a challenge. I don't know why, it's a guy thing.

"Pull into here," the stranger said, jabbing at a narrow alley. Holmes made a sharp turn and almost caused a five car pile-up. Once in the alley, he drove up onto a car carrier and turned off the engine. _Great_, I thought,_ now we're sitting ducks._

The chasers pulled into the alley a moment later since the dragon and the tank couldn't fit through. Under Holmes' direction, we ducked below the windows. (Well, I had to be pushed down, actually.) A few of the front runners sped straight through the alley, hoping to catch us, while a few hung back. "We're going to be _so_ lucky if this works," the stranger whispered.

We waited through several agonizing minutes as a few cars stopped entirely. The drivers got out and poked around the alley, smashing nearby windows. They must have been looking through each of the parked cars. It was only a matter of time before they came to our car. The tinkling glass on concrete was coming closer. On my left, Holmes still held down my head protectively, and on my right, the stranger was praying for a miracle.

There was a bright flash that filled the air that was immediately followed by a deafening, rumbling _boom!_ that resonated long past the initial shock "There is no way _that_ was real lighting." Despite Holmes' claim, the men outside were disinclined to agree and immediately jumped back in their cars and sped away. Not being one to question a miracle, Holmes started the engine again and backed out of the alley. (Okay, maybe he _would_ question it extensively if he was suspicious.)

I had to laugh at the sight of our saviors; sitting out of sight of the alley, a blackened Gimli huffed and puffed at a very amused Legolas. At their feet were several flash grenades. We paused and waved to show our thanks. They saluted us back before we sped off again. (This time _with_ the flow of traffic, thankfully.)

Holmes aimed right for a rainstorm straight ahead which wasn't too far away. We probably should have earned a speeding ticket. . . but I won't complain.

"Where are we going?" the stranger asked.

"The rain. We'll be safer there," Holmes answered.

"You don't have a plan?!"

"No," he answered curtly. "This was slightly short notice and the best laid plans always go awry anyway." Aw. That's sweet. He's learning from me.

"You can't just sit out here and do nothing," the stranger chided.

"I'm a detective, sir," he snapped, "_not_ a warrior."

"Okay!" I half yelled to break up the argument. "Let's just go to my place and figure things out from there."

"Your house is probably being watched or targeted," Holmes argued.

"Yeah, well I want a jacket and a change of clothes."

"And they probably think she's dead," the stranger added. "Plus she needs stitches." Oh yeah.

After much consideration and prodding, Holmes gave in.

* * *

My house wasn't too hard to find once I figured out which way was North and where the library was and what my address was and where we were. Yeah, my sense of direction is pretty much nonexistent. It's a wonder I've been able to find my way home all these years. Anyway, my house was inside the rainstorm, which was quite convenient and meant it hadn't been targeted. Yet.

After I twisted the doorknob and knocked (pounded, more like it) a few times, Holmes asked, "Couldn't you just let us in?"

"Mom locked me out and stole my keys. We'll have to break in." Holmes reached into a pocket for a set of lock-picks. "No, it's okay. I do this all the time." I fished a key out of one of my more concealed pockets. I had filed the teeth down to a row of even mountains and valleys some months ago just for the heck of it. I inserted the key, gave it a bump, turned it, and unlocked the door. You really shouldn't pick a lock you trust just in case you break it, which is why I was hesitant to use a bump key on my front door. But what's done is done. Plus I left both men impressed and wishing they had one.

My knocks had gone unheeded – not because no one was home – because everyone had pretty much ignored them. In the front room, my little sister Britomartis (otherwise known as Bree) was curled up in an armchair listening to her iPod and reading a book. (Yeah, my mom thought up both of our names.) In the kitchen, my Mom was wired up to her laptop most likely finishing an online seminar on "How To Control Your Teenage Daughter." I unhooked my sister from her iPod, much to her consternation. "Where's Dad?" I asked.

"D-downstairs. What the heck did you do to your face?"

"Nothing. Keep my friends occupied, okay?" I walked out of the room and passed my mom, but that's as far as I got. Mom finally noticed me, pulled out her ear-plugs, and stopped me.

"Rhiannon!" One thing to know about my mother. She's one of three people that calls me that. Probably because she thought it up. Another thing: she's a little weird. "What happened? Did you finally calm down? Sit down or you'll make the bleeding worse. _Braden! Rhiannon needs stitches!_" she yelled at the stairs. One more thin. Mom's one of those people who likes to ask questions rather than get the answers.

My dad (Braden) appeared at the top of the stairs with his medical supplies in hand. "At least you've managed not to make a mess this time," he commented. "Lie down on the table so I can clean this up."

"Excuse me," Holmes interrupted, "shouldn't she be taken to a hospital?"

"I am perfectly qualified to stitch my daughter's head together," my dad said calmly.

"Who are you, then?" my mom snapped. "Some sort of doctor?"

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, ma'am," he said ever-so-politely.

Then my mother, in a completely uncharacteristic move, took two steps forward and _slapped_ Holmes in the face. I turned instinctively to see his pain-stricken, surprised face – one I would make sure to remember forever.

_It hurt! – S.H._

You big baby.

_This had __better__ not be going in your Fan Fiction. – S.H._

You know it will. Now shut it so I can keep going.

"You're the one that's caused all this!" my mom was screaming. "She hasn't been right since Baylei disappeared. She can't concentrate, she can't get her work together, she can't hold onto a sentence for the life of her. What did you do to my daughter?!"

"MOM!" Even I was surprised by the outburst. We all turned (which wasn't such a great idea on my part) to see my little sister standing in the entrance to the kitchen. She stood in firm defiance and defense of Mr. Holmes. "Just stop it. Haven't you been listening to Rhee? He hasn't done anything to hurt her. It's that other guy."

"Dorian Black," I added helpfully.

"He has a name now? Cool. Well he's the one who's been trying to kill her."

Silence overcame the room. Mom, who lost her glaring contest with me and Holmes (who wasn't actually competing), stormed out of the room. Bree slid away once the silence became too awkward for her.

My dad was the only one unaffected as he continued cleaning my cut. At some point, he stuck a syringe in my head and delivered the anesthetic. (What are we doing with this stuff? Er, Dad 'borrows' this stuff from work because our family is notorious when it comes to stitches.) "This may sting a bit," he warned after sterilizing the needle. "Do you want to hold onto something?"

Without a word spoken, Holmes took my hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. I returned it, albeit harder because Dad started sewing right then. Perfect timing.

* * *

I had been bandaged up, I de-snarled my hair, I washed it as best I could and dried it, and I changed into some dry clothes. I was doing okay despite the fact that even being knocked out and losing quite a bit of blood didn't change the fact that Snape's potion was still going strong. How long had he said it would last? Three to eight days. I am_ so_ going to kill him.

Our new friend was figuring out how to beat my older brother Basil at_Halo 3_ while pressing him for information about my situation. (It's not possible to beat Basil at anything. I'm not biased; it's the truth.) Holmes was learning about 21st century technology from my sister whose lesson was really about 21st century music. (I tried to convince her to lean mostly towards soundtracks. Somehow I don't think that really worked out.)

Dad was in his room watching T.V. when I went to talk to him. As soon as I heard what was on, I completely forgot what I wanted to say. A Breaking Report had taken over regular programming. In Hong Kong and Tokyo, buildings were burning as people ran for cover. The sky was filled with thick clouds and darkness in both cities. A female anchor's quiet, yet profound voice overlaid the shocking footage. "At two p.m. this afternoon, typically quiet parts of town were utterly destroyed by armies that appeared out of nowhere. These armies were described as, 'supernatural,' 'horrific,' and, 'completely unrealistic.' Authorities are busy dispelling rumors of alien involvement and focusing on defense tactics. They currently suspect the United States of instigating the attack, but they may change their minds as New York and Los Angeles have received similar attacks as well."

Dad flipped to another channel, trying to distract me, but the same stuff was on except in Mexico City. And in Moscow. And in Mumbai. Finally, he just left it on one station that was talking about the attacks on New York and Los Angeles.

I ran out of the room turning on whatever TVs and computers were in my path. I opened up the internet for Holmes and yanked out Basil's video game cords so the stranger could see the reports. Each TV was on a different station and each computer had a different web site that gave us more info. My house became a flood of horrific information.

After several minutes of information gathering, we pooled our conclusions.

"Kyoto, Seoul, Sao Paulo, Paris, Cairo, Rome, Singapore, Madrid, Saint Petersburg, Lima–"

"Venice, Berlin, Jakarta, Beijing, Delhi, Tehran, Rio de Janeiro, Vienna, Ho Chi Minh–"

"And Coraline, Utah," I added. Both Holmes and the stranger stopped their listings to stare at me. "Coraline's a small place, I know, but we're pretty well off. Not too big, not too small; it's just right."

"Coraline?" the stranger repeated. "There's no point in attacking–"

"Utah?!" Holmes interrupted.

"If I have to get into a Study in Scarlet argument with you," I warned, "I _will_ mop the floor with your bloody corpse. Let's focus on the issue at hand."

"Right," the stranger continued, "whoever released these armies is targeting high population centers and capitol cities. He clearly wants to control the world rather than destroy it."

"But Dorian Black's actions here don't support that," Holmes argued. "The attacks on these cities show careful planning and a specific strategy, but this most recent attack was more of a blundering attempt to kill Ms. Phan."

"Maybe that's part of the strategy," I added. "Kill the opposition before they have a chance to oppose."

"That wouldn't explain why _I_ was released here, unless he wanted to kill me too. But then why wasn't I released elsewhere where it would be easier to kill me?"

"Because he's an idiot," the stranger cut in. "Plus he told us exactly where he lives." He was grinning like a kid with candy while Holmes and I waited for answer. Finally, he relented. "Okee doke. Bit of a history quiz. What cities were the first to super-size? To have their population surpass a million people?"

Ooh! I knew this. There were three. "New York, which is now in ruins. L.A.? No, they came later. Mexico City, but it's burning. And one more. . ."

"London," Holmes said with quite a bit of gravity. "London hasn't been touched."

"Weird," said I, not quite grasping the concept, "because that's where the aliens _always_ attack in Doctor Who." After a moment of dry stares, it finally dawned on me. "Oh. Never attack your base of operations. I get it. _Dad! I need a credit card! One with a lot of miles!_"

"Hush!" Holmes suddenly exclaimed. We listened with him for a minute, but heard nothing suspicious. "What do you hear?" I shrugged. I couldn't hear a thing. "Where's the rain?"

"Hey, Rhee!" Bree shouted from the living room. "It's raining at the Olson's place, but not over here. What's going on?" Oh dear.

"Get your family out of here," he ordered. "Now."

"Right. And you better borrow some clothes from my brother. He's about your size."

"We don't have time–"

"You stick out like a sore thumb. Not that it's a problem with society today. It's just so Dorian doesn't spot you." I ran off to gather up my family, all the while wondering how Holmes would react to a 21st century teenager's wardrobe. Considering how much Basil was like me and how much he liked to shock and awe my friends, I knew Holmes would be in for a bit of a ride.

Outside, my dad packed a couple necessary supplies while my mom made sure everyone was safe. Bree, still quite calm and undisturbed, had her nose in a book. Basil, who was taking his car, was trying to rescue his Wii much to the dissatisfaction of my mother. Mom was the most stressed as she was trying to convince me to go with them.

"I'll be fine, Mom."

"You'll be killed. Don't think I haven't seen how dangerous those things are."

"Trust me. You haven't."

"Rhiannon, you're scared. Get away from them."

"I've got Holmes and a gun with silver bullets. What do I have to be scared of?"

"Honey, you're not a hero."

"_Evil triumphs when good men do nothing._ I can help. I have to help. I'm not going to lie to you and say I'm going with Basil. I _will_ be going to London. Stay away from Salt Lake City and go someplace small and close to water."

Mom couldn't say anymore. She tried, but she couldn't get anything past the tears. I gave her a hug goodbye and gave my farewells to the rest of the family. Dad gave me a credit card and told me to come back alive. Bree saluted me and wished me luck in my psycho adventure. They finally backed out and went into the storm.

I turned my attention to Basil. He had a wicked grin on his face. "What did you do to him?" I demanded.

"Nothing irreversible. Are you sure you don't want to come with me? I still have room." I shook my head. "Didn't think so. To be honest, if I was in your place, I'd do the same thing. Except Mom would probably have won."

"You better leave. Try to stay close to water. And don't let your kleptomania get out of hand. Silver helps, but don't go robbing jewelry stores."

Finally, with one last hug from my favorite brother, he was gone.

I turned back to my empty house and found a 21st century Holmes in the doorway. He had been wrangled into jeans and a dark t-shirt, but he showed no signs of discomfort. In fact, he had spiked his hair too. He looked genuine. And he looked good. (That's when I remembered what a spectacular actor he was. He could look natural in anything.)

"You could have gone with them," he said.

"Yeah. . . Am I going to make it back alive?"

"I don't know. I can't make any promises."


	3. This Is The Clever Stranger's Name

**Sherlock Holmes v. The 21****st**** Century**

**This Is The Clever Stranger's Name**

Holmes really was a great actor, but he didn't like keeping in character for long. In an instant, all his ease vanished and there was the real, ticked off Holmes again with somewhat shorter hair than I remembered. I couldn't quite place my finger on what was bugging him. "Your brother is one of the most infuriating men I have ever met!"

"Yeah, he is kind of a bum. What did he do? Oh, did he introduce you to the emo side of his wardrobe? He kind of goes for the scare factor sometimes."

"No. He is _exactly _like you." Apparently that's all the explanation Holmes had to give me. Wait, does that mean –

"Scotland Yard has been reporting strange activities around local libraries in London," the stranger reported, carrying my laptop into the dining room to set on the table. He took a seat, forcing Holmes and me to look over his shoulders. On the screen, several police files were open. "Mysterious deaths, stolen books, spectral visitors –"

"How the heck did you hack into Scotland Yard's computers with a laptop that hasn't been on speaking terms with the internet for years?" I interrupted.

"If I told you exactly how, would you understand a word I said?" he snapped.

Good point. "No. . . It's just very. . . _Spock_. That's all. Carry on."

Something in that sentence seemed to strike an odd, uncomfortable note with him, but he continued regardless. "The point is, London isn't being ignored. It's being quietly infiltrated unlike any other city."

"Obviously. Mysterious activities don't prove anything," Holmes argued.

"But this does." The stranger pulled up a picture of a tall blonde in a trench coat. Her face was looking past the camera with a slightly lost expression. The most noticeable feature besides her haunting,_ film noir_ expression, was her bright, silver eyes. She didn't appear to be controlled by the Shadow Beast (or Shadow Soldier, as they were turning out to be), but the potential was still there. The stranger pulled up another picture, this time of a boy waiting to cross a street. He looked to be about twelve and trying to pull off the "sk8r b0i" look (and was failing miserably). His unfocused expression held the same silver eyes.

The stranger pulled up more and more pictures taken by various traffic, police, and security cameras from around the city. "These were taken right before strange car crashes or sudden heart attacks or mysterious strokes that killed significant political figures. At the same time, these people are coming into power." We were bombarded again by photos of newly elected political officials, each and every one with silver eyes and stiff poses, like robots with loosely controlled joints and inaccurate controls.

"We've seen enough," Holmes suddenly interrupted. "We get the picture."

"Ha ha! Punny, Holmes."

"We won't know anything more until we get to London, so I suggest that we leave soon."

Yeah. Leave being the operative word. It seems that as I reserved a few airplane tickets and hotel rooms, my house was raided of all its most important attributes: silver and food. Mysteriously enough, it only took them three minutes to stand behind me with a shared expression that said, "_We're_ ready to go. What about _you_?"

"Please tell me you didn't steal my mother's jewelry. . . You did."

"We'll return it," Holmes promised. Yeah right. "We're running out of –"

The earth suddenly jumped beneath our feet, which generally meant something bad was about to happen due to past experiences with shaking earth. You know, foreboding earthquakes are entirely cheesy and completely eerie at the same time. No matter how cliche they get, people still keep getting scared by them.

"– time."

We dashed out of my house, just barely remembering to bring the laptop, and scrambled into the car. As we skidded away, I could see Dorian's army closing in on my house, but since we were going in the opposite direction, they ignored us. I turned back around in my seat so I wouldn't have to see what they were going to do to it.

* * *

"It's called a gas-gauge, Holmes."

"I apologize once again, but may I remind you _again_ that this technology is completely foreign to me."

"Just shut it, Rhee. We're almost there."

"You're paying."

If it had been raining, I would be even more miserable. Pushing a car to a gas station isn't what I had in mind for a trip to the airport. I'm pretty sure the others felt the same way, but my inhibitions had been shot ages ago. If I wrote what I was whining about, you would be as annoyed as they were.

We were stuck on the edge of a highway, about a mile away from an exit. The new guy and I pushed the back of the car while Holmes pushed up front and steered through the window occasionally. It wasn't a job I envied because the passing cars had a tendency to come within three inches of him. Each time, he let out a good string of curses, especially when it was a semi or a horn blaring at him.

"We still have time to catch our flight," the stranger reassured.

"It take five hours to get through airport security."

"So reserve another flight."

"I have already spent seven hundred dollars on tickets. I'm not spending more."

"Well, that will depend on how hard you push," Holmes snapped back at me.

"You know, the only way this could possibly get better is if you would take two steps to the left and let some car–"

Suddenly, in a cacophonous symphony of screeching tires and snapping metal, the car went flying out of my hands with Holmes and some other car carried along. A second later, Holmes landed, the cars following suit. I tried not to watch as one of the cars fell on top of him, crushing him, and bounced off. I couldn't move, but I might have been screaming. I think.

The stranger leaped into action, getting the unconscious driver out of he car and making sure he kids were alright. I was snapped out of my state of shock when I thought I saw Holmes move. Impossible. No one survives a crash like that. But there I was, at his side, helping him turn over onto his back so he could let out another rainbow of curses.

He wasn't cut up horribly like I expected him to be. I would have been surprised to find _one_ horribly battered and filleted piece of Sherlock Holmes. His eyes couldn't focus on anything and he was breathing in quick, shallow gasps, clearly in pain. "Holmes, can you hear me?" He sort of moved his head in a motion I took to be a nod. "Does it hurt when you breathe? Or is it just hard to breathe?"

"What's. . . the difference?" He was starting to get annoyed at me.

The stranger appeared at my side. "If you're choking on your own blood or you inhaled a tooth, that's one thing. If a rib is broken, that's another."

"Nothing's broken. Just a few nasty bruises," he insisted. Usually I'd peg this as a guy trying to be macho, but considering some of his scuffles I'd read about, I figured he would know.

The stranger, however, didn't believe him. He pulled out a strange silver instrument from his pocket and turned it on. It glowed a pale blue as he scanned Holmes for injuries. I had this strange feeling that I'd seen it before, that I'd seen him hold it as gently and expertly as a paintbrush. I grew uneasy as I watched his face go from concerned to confused. "This is odd," he mumbled. Note that it wasn't, "This isn't right," or, "This isn't good." Should I have hope? "Your entire ribcage should be crushed. Your legs should be shattered."

"So he's alright?"

"Alright? Not a single bruise!"

"Then why do I hurt?" Holmes growled.

"Residual pain from the initial injuries," he explained with a growing smile. I wanted to smack it off him. "It should go away soon, like you were never –"

"Doctor!" one of the children screamed. "Mom's not breathing!"

In an instant, the stranger, now the doctor, was with the woman, trying to keep her alive. After a wordless exchange, Holmes sent me over to help him. I became the one to breathe for the mother as the doctor performed the chest compressions between breaths. He two kids hovered over us, desperate to see her wake up. I wish I could have been in their place, crying, instead of trying to control myself as I gave her breath after breath.

Holmes found the strength to get up and limp over to us. "Where is –" he started.

"Left pocket," the doctor directed. Holmes pulled the instrument out and activated it. Nothing happened. "Other button."

"Fractured skull, broken neck, collapsed trachea," Holmes determined gravely. "Trace amounts of silver. . ." he trailed off thoughtfully. "Rhiannon, check her eyes."

I opened one of her eyelids and found, "Silver."

"She's reacting badly to a Shadow Beast. Get some water."

The doctor had a better idea. He took the instrument from Holmes and I guess zapped her. I thought he had killed her, but when I saw a snake of gray smoke shoot out of her mouth, she started breathing again. The kids and I breathed a unison sigh of relief. Holmes make a call to 911 to get an ambulance for her. (On _my_ phone, I might add. Darn Pick Pocket.) (How did he know to call 911? Hm. I guess some things are just good to know.)

We sat in the gravel, waiting for the emergency vehicles to come and trying to fill the disquieting silence.

"You're a doctor."

"Sort of, yeah."

"Sort of?"

"More a doctor of everything. I go wherever and whenever I'm needed."

"You're a traveler."

"Time traveler, I guess you could say."

"Right. So, Doctor who?"

"Just The Doctor."

"Alright. What is that scanner tool you used on me?"

"It's a sonic. . . ah. . . _screwdriver_."

"And what does this sonic screwdriver do?"

"Opens doors, scans for injuries, picks locks, seals things closed, opens doors – pretty much anything and everything."

"Interesting. Where might I get one?"

"Holmes!" I cut in. "You can't have a sonic screwdriver. You'd wreak havoc on London!" He backed down because he knew I was right. And then we plunged back into silence.

The paramedics arrived before too long, followed by a couple police cars. In the chaos that followed, the lady was loaded into the ambulance and the police figured out what to do with her children. During this time, Holmes and I discussed our next plan of action.

"She was supposed to kill us. The Shadow Beasts are catching up," Holmes whispered.

"Right. Can you hot-wire a police car?"

* * *

Um, yeah. He can.

We should have been sitting in a police station, all in a row, explaining to the chief how the nice lady slammed into Holmes without leaving even a scratch on him and how the Doctor saved her life with his sonic screwdriver and how we realized we were still being followed by murderous creatures that take over people's minds and bodies and how we couldn't take our car because it was in pieces and being towed away and how we had to leave immediately or the paramedics and policemen would die and how Holmes hot-wired the police car because I asked him to and how we got away in a car chase that left several people injured rather than dead like the Shadow Beasts would have and how we ditched the car and altered our appearance with stolen clothes and just started running to the closest bus stop. We should have been carted off to jail with all we did, but as Holmes misquoted, "The end justifies the means."

And somehow, we weren't. We stood at the bus stop, Holmes wearing the Doctor's leather jacket, the Doctor in a hoodie he 'borrowed,' and me in a trench coat over my jacket. "I feel like a thief," I moaned.

"It was your idea, so, yes, you are a thief," Holmes reassured.

"Look on the bright side," the Doctor added. "We still have all your silver. Plus some from the jewelry shop."

"I feel like a thief. Do you guys just want to call a cab?"

"We'll be less noticeable on a bus," said Holmes, not allowing for any argument.

I mumbled something about needing a teleporter, and suddenly, the Doctor was hit with inspiration. "Why don't we use my ship?"

"Only if it's fast. Where is it?" asked Holmes.

"Back at the library."

If I could insert some cricket noises, I would. Holmes and I were ready to kill the man. I was actually acquainted with the storyline he came from, and I knew what his ship could do. We could have been in London right from the start. Then again, we could be in London immediately and not have to sit through an airplane trip.

"So this was a redundant trip," I complained.

"Not completely," Holmes said. "We've lost our pursuers and we'll be perfectly safe in returning to the library. As an additional bonus, we've sent them down the wrong path." Hm. He was being uncharacteristically optimistic, but at least he caught himself. "Why didn't you mention this before?" he asked, his face darkening.

"You didn't even bother to ask my name!" the Doctor shot back.

"But you don't have a name," I said before I could stop myself. "And there are more important things to worry about. Like saving the world."

"Point taken. . . Ah. There's the bus."


	4. This Is Dorian Black's True Nature

**Sherlock Holmes v. The 21****st**** Century**

**This Is Dorian Black's True Nature**

Three hours and eight buses later, we stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the library. We could tell it was empty and that the Shadow Soldiers had left for good, but we were still quite wary. To my great consternation, the entire place had been trashed, but what could I expect. An entire army had gone trough it, stripping out all the usable parts, and Holmes wasn't about to let me lose my sanity. We made our way slowly over the torn up road and sidewalks. There were a couple times Holmes and the Doctor had to pull me out of a random pit; each time, they warned me to watch where I was going and to quit being an idiot.

Inside the library, not a single book was left on the shelves. They had been tossed violently against the walls like a bomb had gone off. We stared at the mess in a general state of disgust. Holmes picked up one of the books, flipped through it and tossed it aside, finding the pages blank. "The Department should have been able to stop this."

"You really need to change its name. Call it 'Northcraft' or 'Dunsinane' or something cool," I muttered. I guess I was a little loopy from the sight of my destroyed haven.

"How long have you been thinking about that?"

"Six months? Eight? Not sure. Why did you start the Department anyway? It doesn't seem like your kind of thing."

"It might surprise you to know that I have other interests besides investigating. It was a good idea at the time and I realized no one else was about to found such an institution."

"With great popularity comes great responsibility," the Doctor said thoughtfully. That kind of comment would get him high on Holmes' Hit List, but to my surprise, Holmes stifled a smile.

"Okay. . . What floor did you arrive on, Doctor?" I asked, changing the subject.

"I'm not sure. I might have climbed up to wherever you two were at. The TARDIS could be anywhere."

"Right. Doctor, take this floor and look through the Video section," Holmes directed. "Rhiannon, take the mystery section. I'll be in the science fiction/fantasy series."

"What's the point of you looking?" I pointed out. "You've never seen the TARDIS."

"You can't miss it," the Doctor added helpfully. "It's a big blue box."

"_Your ship is a big blue box?_" Holmes repeated incredulously. "God save us all."

"Maybe you shouldn't be looking. . ." I started, but trailed off when Holmes gave me a positively dirty look.

We dashed off to our respective floors, me to the third and Holmes to the second. I climbed over a few bookcases, some giant potted plants, a couple couches, and some more bookcases just so I could get up the stairs. The debris was mostly concentrated on the lower levels. And lucky me, I went through the bulk of it. Plus some.

I found the mystery section – my favorite part of the library. The place where Holmes' books resided. The place that he would have preferred to look. The place where I was least likely to find the TARDIS. Dang it. That's what he was planning. Well, at least he wouldn't mind if I got distracted.

I dug through the pile that I was once buried in. Some of the books and the floor were stained in blood – my blood. It wasn't a friendly sight. Down at the bottom were Holmes' books. I flipped through them slowly, my Instinct telling me to go into shock and my Reason screaming that Holmes was fine as of now. _Listen to Reason_, I told myself. _Listen to Reason, listen to Reason, listen to . . . footsteps?_

I spun around just in time to notice a two-by-four – attached to the hands of a crazed Ancient-Greek-looking-Hero who might as well have been named Hector – headed straight for my head. I dodged to the right, and the piece of wood (where in the world he found it, I couldn't tell you) shattered on the ground next to me. That didn't deter him, and in fact, the splintered wood only became a better, deadlier weapon. He swung again and I ducked just in time to avoid a face-full of splinters.

"HOLMES!" I screamed, trying to run away, but being blocked by Hector. "HELP!"

"Now what!" he shouted back, a little peeved by either me or whatever had just come crashing down. I heard him curse at whatever had crushed his hand.

"Just shut up and be helpful! _Whoa!_" I jumped back from another swing, all the while knowing I couldn't avoid him for long. Another swing directed at my head missed me completely, but I wasn't expecting the sudden jab at my stomach. All of a sudden, I found myself on the ground looking up into Hector's silver eyes as he prepared to crush my exposed windpipe. His foot raised up, aimed at my neck, and came down.

_BANG!_

The blow never came. Instead, Hector stopped and fell. One bloody hole shone in his back where Holmes' bullet had hit him. And Holmes stood coldly in what could be called the doorway, holding a smoking gun. I've never seen him that angry before. I coughed a couple of times to get the air back into my lungs and to get my bruised diaphragm working before turning over to get back up. Once on my feet, I fell down again.

"Get up. They're coming."

I rolled my eyes, but since Holmes wasn't in the mood to hear me complain or argue, I got up once again and followed him down the stairs. The only question I had was, "_Who_ was coming?" but that was explained by a battle call from outside.

Holmes let out a muffled curse. "Should have _known_ they would have the building watched! Doctor!" I followed Holmes to the second floor where he had apparently found the TARDIS and a miracle. The Doctor was right behind us, eager to escape.

"Are you sure it's –"

"It's a big blue box! How stupid do you think I am!" Holmes shouted back at me as we turned a few corners. The noise outside was growing exponentially, so we took a couple moments to cover our trail with spare bookcases. At least the TARDIS was hidden deep inside the catacombs of the library.

Finally, we stopped dead in our tracks before a box. The Doctor and I stared in shock.

"Well," I said, trying to be helpful, "It's big. And blue."

"I guess it kind of looks like a box. Sort of. If you squint. And turn your head. . ." the Doctor added hopelessly.

"What?" Holmes demanded.

"That's the Phantom Tollbooth," I explained as a young boy drove out of the box in a little car. "It was one of my favorite books I ever read. I think it was in third grade." The boy saw the three of us standing in front of him, so he turned around and went straight back to promptly disappear. I couldn't help but let a laugh escape. Holmes did not look happy, like all his ego had been popped with a wooden stake.

A second later, I saw something in the corner of my left eye. The Doctor must have seen it too because our heads turned in unison to get a better look. "I don't know about you, but _I_ see a Police Public Call Box," I told him.

"Brilliant."

The fire alarm suddenly started screaming as the roar of an army reached us. They might as well have been close enough to touch us. Time to go. We raced to un-bury the TARDIS, throwing aside bookcases and building a barricade – just in case. After too long, Holmes threw aside the last bookcase covering the door. The Doctor scrambled to unlock it as Holmes remarked, "It's a little cozy, isn't it?" Oddly enough, he was shooting at any beasts that were getting too close at the same time, so imagine this sentence being punctured by gun reports. Finally, the door swung open.

The Doctor and I ignored Holmes and the obligatory, "It's bigger on the inside," remark as we pushed him inside. The Doctor raced to the control center and I locked the door. Holmes was struck dumb at the sight of the alien ship.

"Holmes," I said, "just pretend like you've seen more amazing things than this. Like Middle Earth in your sitting room or Harry Potter mimicking an anorectic."

Still, I can't blame him for his shock, what with the organic supports and the glass tubing in the center of the room that glowed blue-green and the sound of the engines that couldn't be created by humans and the pure energy of the man running around the controls that surrounded the glass column, trying to fix the run down, broken functions. And I think Holmes was curious as to what was down the hall that seemed wide and endless, with rooms and hallways that sprouted from the walls, with twists and turns of their own. What history could be held in there? What information from the ages and history could we learn? Maybe it _was_ endless. 

I would be gawking too, except I was at the door, flinching every time there was a bang or pounding at the door. "How strong are these doors?" I asked.

"The entire German Army couldn't get through those doors, and believe me, they've tried."

"This isn't exactly a human army, Doctor," I nearly screamed, my voice raising in worry as the door jumped again beneath my shoulder and arm. "What's taking you so long!"

With a swing of a mallet, some more fiddling with the mechanics, the Doctor joyously cried, "Got it! Hang on!"

The room literally swung around as the engines picked up power. I'm not sure if it was the army outside or the TARDIS itself that was causing the motion, but either way, it was painful. The Doctor was the only one prepared for the action, so he moved along with the TARDIS, keeping his balance beautifully. Holmes and I, on the other hand, were flung halfway across the room, then back again.

"Skipper! Skipper! Are you OK?" yelled Frodo as the Wasp spun around for another attack! Just in time Captain Kirk pulled out his trusty Phaser, set on full stun, as opposed to partial stun or even fully half stun. As the bullet ricocheted off the battle ax, the wizard had to wonder "whose dream is this anyway?"

Wait, what? Oh, I get it. _Doctor, if I catch you messing around with my writing again, I'm going to SHOOT you! You know I will!_ Anyway, I was saying. . .

Suddenly, after thirty-three seconds of being tossed around like beans in a maraca, the swinging and rocking and pounding stopped. Then the engines shut down. Holmes picked himself up, found a potential weapon and prepared for whatever had gone wrong while I tried to untangle myself from a mess of wires that I had randomly found. And the Doctor was grinning like a little boy. Who was showing off to his peers. As soon as I tumbled out of my mess, I went to the door and decided to open it. "No, they're still out there!" Holmes cried, but he was too late.

I was met by a cool breeze and a bit of bright sunshine. I stepped out onto a cobbled street, across which were several brick houses or flats or whatever the British call them.

"So this must be some sort of teleport," Holmes remarked as he cautiously stepped outside.

"Yep. So, London. Any idea where we are?" the Doctor asked, clearly testing Holmes.

He took a minute to observe our surroundings. I kind of went off wandering while he took in the air, examined the soil, observed the buildings and so on. After a minute, he came to the conclusion, "A rather popular bit of the city, but aside from that, I have never been here before. This London is vastly different from my London."

"You can't be _that_ lost." Watch it, Doctor. This time, the remark must have solidified his position on Holmes' Hit List as evidenced by Holmes' steely glare.

"This isn't my world," he bluntly told the Doctor. "So you can stop acting like an –"

"We're on Baker Street!" I announced, having found a statue dedicated to none other than the Great Detective.

Holmes was afraid to ask for details about the man depicted in bronze. Still, against his better judgment, he asked, "_What_ is he wearing?"

"It's a deerstalker," I chirped, "and an inverness cape-thing-sort-of-coat. I have to admit, it's a pretty decent likeness."

He glared at me and the statue of 'him' for a while before turning away. "Let's go."

The Doctor and I followed, only asking, "Where?"

"While the Doctor was showing off his technological genius, I took the time to notice that most of the sightings and attacks caused by Black's minions were centered around this area – Baker Street, albeit a false representation. After taking Black's obsession with my cases into consideration, I determined that this 221b Baker Street must be important to him or his machinations and must contain evidence of his plans."

"Sounds good to me," said I. "I'm totally going to get one of those syringe-pens at the gift shop!" Holmes suppressed a shudder.

The Baker Street Museum (i.e. 221b Baker Street) was closed when we arrived which we eventually figured out when no one was around to tour the museum or open the door. Holmes automatically stepped up to the locked door and pulled out a key before we reminded him it wasn't his flat anymore. Undeterred, he instead pulled out a set of lock picks. Yeah, Holmes is just someone you don't stop. However, I had a nagging feeling that breaking in wasn't such a great idea.

"We should probably wait for them to open officially rather than doing it for them."

"We can't waste any time, Rhiannon," he insisted.

"Okay, but I couldn't help but notice that they should be opening right about –"

The door suddenly swung open with Holmes frozen in position with his lock picks in hand and a tall, blonde lady that stood in the doorway, her eyes demanding an explanation. I quickly tossed my keys to the ground before she noticed. Holmes took the hint, snatched up the keys and handed them to me. "Thank you, Holmes, for being such a gentleman and picking up my dropped keys," I improvised, solidifying the image. The lady blinked a couple times, then disregarded her initial suspicion. We all breathed a sigh of relief.

"Would you like to come in?" she asked mechanically.

Neither Holmes or the Doctor really wanted to now, but I enthusiastically cried, "Yes!" and immediately ran inside. And yes, they do have syringe-pens in the gift shop.

The Blonde Lady took her position behind the cash register in the gift shop, the Doctor snuck away to the top floor (using his sonic screwdriver to break in, no doubt), and Holmes decided to play the typical museum patron with all the other people that were slowly shuffling in. I, on the other hand, had no interest whatsoever of exploring a fake 'Holmes Sitting Room' since I had already had enough of the real one, so I suddenly became interested in all that the gift shop had to offer. Like deerstalkers and Persian slippers and meerschaum pipes and penknives to stab paper correspondence. Very fascinating junk. And I insisted on touching and examining everything.

"Where are you from?" the Blonde Lady casually asked.

Do I answer? Truthfully? No. "Cour D'Alene, Idaho. You?"

"Sussex – no, London. All my life."

Hm. Freudian slip? "How long have you worked here?"

"Two weeks – _years_. Two years. Who are your friends?"

"Just friends. They're kind of obsessed with Sherlock Holmes' stories."

"Oh. What's your name?"

Maybe it was the effect of all the Sherlock Holmes memorabilia, or maybe the fact that I had no idea what _her_ name was or that she couldn't answer any questions correctly or that her casual questions were too personal, but my suspicions were raised. And in my state of mind, I was definitely toying with a 'Shoot first, ask questions later,' policy. I took a good look at her eyes and found silver. Crud. I started edging out of the gift shop while she still bombarded me with her questions. "Um. . . I need to find my friends. Will you excuse me?"

But she wasn't going to let me go. "You look like someone I saw in Utah."

"Yeah, I just have one of those faces. When were you in Utah?"

"Not long ago. . . I thought I saw you with Sherlock Holmes."

"Yeah, that statue out there is pretty cool." I went up the stairs to the sitting room, the Blonde Lady close on my heels.

"Maybe you know her."

"Maybe I don't."

"Her name is Rhiannon Phan."

I entered the sitting room just as she said this to find Holmes casually observing the furniture with several other patrons. Actually, he may have been playing Tour Guide. "Nope, I don't know a Rhiannon Phan," I said loudly, hoping to catch Holmes' attention. Then I turned right around and went out the door.

"Why did you decide to visit London?"

"I like London. Don't you?"

"But what about the attacks? Aren't you afraid London will be next?"

"I guess I didn't think about that."

"When did you get here?"

"This morning?"

"But all the planes have been grounded. You must have come some other way."

That was about when I snapped. In a flash, I ripped a silver necklace out of my pocket and nearly strangled her in tying it around her neck. Immediately, she started screaming and clawing at her neck, all the while being burned by the necklace. Holmes was right behind her to make sure she wouldn't injure herself.

Her screaming was definitely getting past the point of me feeling sorry for her to just plain getting on my nerves, as well as getting the attention of the few people upstairs. "Yeesh. Is this what I was like?"

"_Yes_," was Holmes' curt response.

"Is that lady alright?" one of the patrons called down.

"I think so!" I shouted back over the screaming. The people upstairs must have been satisfied because they didn't ask any more questions. Thankfully, she was able to inhale at some point and stop screaming momentarily, at which time, we saw the Shadow Beast leave. The Doctor decided to show up when she finally stopped screaming so he could 'help' her.

We moved her into the back room of the gift shop where we (I) got her some water and attempted to calm her down. I say 'attempted' because she pretty much calmed herself down. The Doctor took a quick scan to determine that she was okay. "Fantastic," he said. "Clean Bill of Health."

She didn't miss a beat. "Who _are_ you?"

"I'm the Doctor, and this is Rhiannon Phan –"

"–Thought so –"

"–and Sherlock Holmes."

"_What?_"

"Relax, lady," I cut in.

"Pardon me? I _have_a name."

"And I'm sorry, but I don't know it. You were too busy prying into my life to introduce yourself," I snarled.

"I'm Mary Russell," she bit right back.

Oh. Something must have snapped in me because I suddenly heard myself say, "I'm going to watch the register." The fact that I have no clue how to manage British money must not have been a big factor in that decision. Still, I sat at that register glaring at something while listening to Holmes get all the information out of Mary Russell that he possibly could.

"How long have you been working for Dorian Black?"

"Two weeks ago, I was ripped out of my rooms at Oxford and drafted into service. He had some sort of mind control device he used on me. I tried to run away, but I had no control. The most I could do was try to project my free will and thoughts over whatever had control. It was mostly useless."

"Why did he want you to work here?"

"He was hiding something from you specifically."

"Do you know what we weren't supposed to find?"

"No, but I was supposed to kill you and take Rhiannon to Dorian so he could take her to dinner."

Right about here, their conversation was punctured by the sound of shattered glass. "You'll have to pay for that!" Holmes shouted at me before continuing. "Do you know if he had a private area where the mind control wouldn't let you go near?"

"There wasn't a specific area, but I tried to overhear a telephone conversation of his once, but his device put me out for the next two days."

"What did you catch?"

"He was definitely talking about Rhiannon –" Here, another shattering of glass broke the flow of words. "She certainly has anger issues, doesn't she. Dorian was trying to convince a superior to let him keep her."

_Smash!_

Holmes held back some sort or reprimand and continued. "He's not the one in command?"

"He's no more than second-in-command if that. Maybe a puppet leader."

"So does he know or you know where the next attacks are going to be?"

"No. The synchronized attacks weren't Dorian's idea. He only wanted to attack a city in America. Coraline, Utah, I believe."

_Crash!_

The Doctor intervened before Holmes could stop me. "I'll go check on her before she shoots someone," he said. When he came out, he found the reason for the broken glass.

Let's start at the beginning of the conversation. So, the first time I heard something about pairing Dorian and I, I did smash some glass, but I didn't want to pay for any more. But it was right then someone walked into the gift shop. "Sorry I'm late today, Ms. Robertshaw," he said. "I got held up in traffic. Everyone's panicking over the attacks. . ." He trailed off when he looked up at me. Dorian Black. Dorian Black dressed in a uniform. Dorian Black dressed in a uniform and explaining why he was late for work. Pathetic. Way to break the illusion of insanity and superiority. "You're not my boss."

"Ah, no." We stared at each other in shock for two seconds before the two of us burst into action. I started running straight for the back room, but Dorian was faster and stronger with his robotic limbs. He immediately grabbed my hair, yanking me back to the counter, when I suspect the second glass item shattered. I think it was a snow-globe.

I was going to yell, I really was, but of course he clamped a hand over my mouth and nose, cutting off my air supply. "Maybe I should repeat that offer of coffee," he said as he started to drag me towards the door. I grabbed another one of the cheap snow-globes that said "221b Baker Street!" and smashed it against his head. The blow stunned him enough that I could inhale and slip out of his grip and start running again.

He didn't stay stunned for long. I was almost out the door when I was suddenly hurled into a wall full of deerstalkers, pipes, penknives, and something else that was especially heavy. At least in my hyped up state, I wasn't stunned as bad as Dorian was. Still, he has to pick me up by my neck in a very Darth Vader-esque way. "You're not getting away _this_time."

Just once, could he talk to me or gloat or reveal all his masterful, villainous plans _without_ manhandling me?

_It would probably help if you didn't instigate the conflict. – S.H._

_You_ try to keep your temper even when you're around him. And as a side note, _he_ was the one that left me behind to rot last time.

So, the lovely gift shop's a wreck, Dorian's got me dangling over a bunch of merchandise, and I'm desperately trying to breathe. That's pretty much the state the Doctor found us in. Immediately, he whipped out the sonic screwdriver, aimed it at Dorian, and ordered, "Put her down, _now!_" A second later, Holmes and Mary Russell were right behind him.

I honestly felt Dorian jump in shock, and his eyes were full of terror. Then in an instant, his mask of macho-manliness covered it back up. Fear? Of Holmes? Then why had he tried so hard before to recruit him? Of course. It was respect, admiration, and absolute awe for that brilliance. No wonder he was scared. If I didn't know Holmes so well, I would be just as afraid.

"Don't make me kill her," Dorian warned.

"Just like your Master ordered?" Holmes countered.

"I don't have a master! I work alone!"

"Please. You couldn't coordinate such a world-wide attack at this level even if it _was_ your idea." _Please Holmes, don't piss him off so much that he accidentally kills me._

"Don't patronize me!" His grip tightened enough to make me physically struggle, possibly to make Holmes back off. I couldn't tell because Dorian moved so I was facing directly away from them and so he would be shielded from an attack. Judging from Holmes lack of a biting reply, I determined that he must have.

"You don't want to kill her, Mr. Black." His tone was a bit more gentle, but with an edge that said he was going to murder the man. I was of the same mind.

When Dorian shifted, he left me in reach of all that Sherlock Holmes merchandise. Now what could potentially be used as a weapon? A penknife? Those things had almost killed me before, except there was no chance they could have hurt me. They were barely sharp enough to stab paper correspondence. Still, I had a tendency to wreak havoc on any circuitry within twenty feet of me. Intentionally or otherwise. Well, I had a penknife, and I had an opportunity. Brilliant.

I reached behind me for the knives on the counter. Holmes instantly knew what I wanted to do, and realized I needed Dorian to be distracted. "So what is his name, your puppeteer?"

"Puppeteer? I am no puppet. I am a leader. I make my own decisions with my army."

"So the army was your idea. Not a great accomplishment, considering all the flaws and weaknesses we found. Oh, you didn't know? What a pity. Your Master must know. He must not have told you."

"Why would he hide anything from me?"

"No need to tell his puppet. So what is his name?"

Dorian glared at his hero. "You're not getting that from me."

I guess we weren't getting any more information from him. Not at this point, anyway. I finally grabbed the penknife and stabbed his arm, hoping that the machinery would fail. Dorian screamed in pain as sparks started flying and his arm started to smoke. Well, it did fail. It was no longer under Dorian's control. I just misjudged that it would let me go. All it did was put my feet back on the ground.

Dorian still had one working arm. He grabbed the closest, heavy, blunt object and raised it to knock me out, when there was a _whack!_ His eyebrows shot up in surprise and his eyes clouded over. He stood for a couple seconds before leaning forward and falling to the ground. Behind where he had stood was a wiry, graying, middle-aged man holding a cricket bat with a chunk of Dorian's hair embedded in the wood. And his eyes. I've never seen such bright silver.

Holmes, the Doctor, and Mary Russell shifted into fighting stances, aiming their weapons at him and clenching their hands into fists. The man was unperturbed at their reaction. "Hello," he said cheerfully. "My name is D – Doctor, can that screwdriver _really_ be used as a weapon?" The Doctor, caught in his bluff, shook his head sheepishly and slipped it back into his pocket. "Right. I'm Donovan, or Jake, as Rhiannon Phan liked to call me."

Holmes breathed a sigh of relief and put his gun away. Mary Russell, still suspicious, lowered her fists slowly. "Thank you, Donovan."

"I'm only here to help."

"Why did –"

"Excuse me," I gasped. "Still being strangled here. Could use some help."


	5. This Is Our Real Antagonist

**Sherlock Holmes v. the 21st Century **

**This Is Our Real Antagonist**

"I'm a Shadow Beast, but I was the first to be created. Dorian spent the most time on me, so I am a well established and complete character. I even got to choose my own name. Donovan. Like I'm Dorian's brother. I don't think that he intended for me to have a mind or a consciousness or a conscience.

"Dorian's plans were fairly benign and would inevitably fail. There was no harm he could do, although the multitude of kidnapping plots for Rhiannon may result in his eventual murder. But then The Master came along and used Dorian's army. Now he's taking over the world and a soon as he has control, Dorian and Rhiannon are to be executed."

During Donovan's monologue, the Docotor was fiddling with Dorian's mechanical arm. It's a very awkward position to be in, what with an unconscious Dorian holding me by the neck a little too close to his face for comfort. Plus, his breath didn't smell like perfume either. I dug into the Doctor's coat pockets to find some Tic-Tacs to toss into his mouth. After a couple zaps from the sonic screwdriver, I was freed and able to inhale and roll away from the snoring Dorian.

"So the only reason you want to help," Mary Russell concluded, "is so you can protect Dorian."

"The same Dorian that you just eagerly knocked out," I added.

"It's for his own good. I think," said Donovan.

The Doctor and I each took one of Dorian's arms and dragged him into the back room where we raided his pockets. "Where is he getting this technology?" the Doctor remarked. "This shouldn't come around for another thousand years or so."

"What is it?" The device he fiddled with looked like a small black flashlight with a few more LEDs and buttons than necessary.

"It's a Fusion Bomb."

"That small? Wow. What's Dorian doing with one?"

"He's probably just collecting weapons. A bomb like this could destroy a city as big as London."

"Ah. Can you disarm it?"

"Yep, but this could be useful." So he pocketed it. This marks the beginning of my avoidance of the Doctor's pockets.

Holmes, Mary Russell, and Donovan quickly put together a semblance of order in the Gift Shop. They swept away the broken glass and put the hat racks back on walls and replaced the merchandise. I think I might have seen Holmes trying on one of the deerstalkers – or Mary Russsell snuck it on his head. Yeah, it makes him look like a nerd.

I found Dorian's wallet and sifted through it. Now only did I find several hundred dollars, J I found his Driver's License (he was American) and his address of current residence written on the back of a grocery store receipt. Huh. I showed it to the Doctor. "I think we should go," I said.

"You're asking for trouble."

"Well, more or less begging, but still, it's a lead."

"Holmes won't like it."

Holmes didn't. "You're not going," he said with a glare. I tried to argue, but all I got was, "You're not going."

"Why not?" I whined demanded.

"You're not going. If I have to bolt you to the ground, I will."

"You are not my father!"

"And you are not a hero!" Holmes' voice rang through the silent shop for several seconds. To be honest, I was scared of him right then. Everyone else stopped what they were doing, afraid of being the next subject of his wrath. "Rhiannon --"

"I get it. I'm not capable of helping my own world, am I!"

Holmes sighed and pulled out his gun. "No. You're not." Then, using the butt of said gun, he knocked me over the head and everything went black.

* * *

I woke up with a lump on my head and a burning desire to kill. Unfortunately, Mary Russell had hidden all the sharp and pointy objects. "Where's Holmes?" I demanded as I leaped to my feet.

"Gone with the Doctor and his Blue box," said Donovan as he nervously played with a damaged penknife. "Gone to meet Mister Master."

"Do they even know who Dorian's Master is?"

"No. No one but Dorian and the Master know."

Great. "Where's Dorian?" Donovan pointed to the back room where we had left him. Dorian was stuffed in a closet and snoring. I found all his silver and slipped it into my pockets and occasionally around my neck. Then, I took of his coat. (It is not easy to undress an unconscious man!) There were still several weapons in the pockets.

"You can't go," Donovan warned.

"Donovan. . . Holmes knew he couldn't stop me, which is why he took the address with him. But I memorized the address, so you can't stop me either. Stay with Dorian," I instructed as I walked away.

Unfortunately, I completely forgot aobut Mary Russell. I almost ran into her tall, imposing form on my way out. Now, I am not a fighter, I cannot lie to a Holmes trained detective, and I have no hope of sneaking away. All I can do is beg.

"Please?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"You'll ruin Holmes' investigation -- get in his way."

"I've never -- how dumb do you think I am? Sorry, bad question. Look, Dorian's practically in love with me. I'm the one that has a free ticket to his place. I'll be the safest there because I'm closer to danger. No one will expect that."

"And if you get caught?"

"I'm still hyped up on whatever potion Snape gave me. No one wants to catch me. Besides, it give me super powers."(1)

Mary took a second to think it over. "I'll call the cab. You pay."

And that was how the two of us ended up in a meadow in the middle of nowhere facing a ridiculously large and ornate mansion. "So, um. . ."

"You go through the front door and distract them. I'll find Holmes," Mary directed. A second later, she was gone with no hint as to her destination.

I sauntered over to the front door and knocked. A butler with silver eyes politely opened the door. "Hi!" I said as chipper as I could manage. "Dorian invited me over to see the house. OH, and he probably wants his coat back." I slipped off the coat and handed it to the flustered butler. I smiled and twirled a bit of my hair absentmindedly. Hopefully I could pull off the image of Dorian's girlfriend.

"Please, come in," he eventually said. "Mr. Dorian isn't actually here right now."

"Oh really?" I said, disappointment evident in my voice.

"But if you really would like to see the history of this place, I could provide you with a bit of a tour." He turned on his heel and walked down a hall, explaining the history behind the portraits. _Bad idea!_ I knew right from the beginning, that I was going to have a miserable time trying to concentrate, although I was fascinated by a blatant forgery of the Mona Lisa prominently displayed in the center of his collection.

I was hoping the paintings would end, but as we exited one hall of paintings, we entered another of statues and sculptures. They were oddly in good taste, quality and value – something Dorian couldn't have accomplished on his own. Actually, there were some I could pick out that Dorian might have bought – one was a cheap statue of Napoleon III labeled as Napoleon Bonaparte. He kind of looked like the famous one, I guess. But I needed something to focus on, so I made a game out of it. A pair of jewel encrusted Nikes here, a purple and orange "modern art" painting that clashed with _everything_ over there.

There was a painting in an ostentatious, gilded frame decorated with swirls and sea-shell motifs. The painting itself would have been overwhelmed if it hadn't been just as over-the-top fancy as the frame. There was a lady in a ruffled, frilly, pink dress, swinging in the trees, kicking off a shoe as she let her lover take an advantageous view of the underside of her skirts while her husband's hands pushed her in the background. I wasn't fascinated by the painting as much as the gentleman standing below it, examining its merits. He dressed in a dark suit – not exactly what you would wear during the summer.

"The Swing," he said without turning to look at me, "by Jean-Honoré Fragonard."

"I've never been one for Rococo," I replied.

"It's the art of a culture. You should be more open-minded."

"Oh, I love 18th century France. It's just that Rococo is too much for me."

He finally turned to face me. He was younger than I first suspected – in his early fifties – although is hair was turning quite silver. His face was handsomely chiseled, but cold, unnerving. Still, I couldn't help but smile when he looked at me with his sharp, blue eyes. "I'd love to argue with you, but I find that I agree with you wholeheartedly."

"I take it that you didn't pick this piece for your gallery?"

"Certainly not. Dorian Black wanted this one."

"Well, which ones _did_ you picke?"

He smiled then and dismissed the butler. "I'll show you," he said offering his arm.

I took it and he led me down a darker hall. "I'm Rhee," I said, "Rhiannon Phan."

"Professor James Moriarty," he replied.

And I could only smile in response. What would have come out had I dared to open my mouth would have been something along the lines of, "_What did I just do?! Help! Holmes! Doctor! Mary! __**Holmes!!**_" But I just went along with the ride, nodding occasionally as Moriarty talked about his favorite pieces of art.

What in the world were the other three doing? Did they know I was here? Or were they busy sabotaging Moriarty's plans? Hopefully both.

"You seem to be a little distracted," he commented.

"I'm sorry," I said sincerely. "I'm a little too hyped up on caffeine than is good for me." It wa sa lie, but Moriarty seemed to accept it. "Hey, was that the real Mona Lisa I saw back there?"

"Almost. You may have noticed the artist drew a moustache on her."

"Really? That's art?"

"Apparently." He shrugged his shoulders to show how little stock he put in the artist's talents.

Actually, I looked this up later. It's called LHOOQ by Marcel Duchamp. The style is known as Dadaism, a kind of anti-art movement that came after WWI. Just a little thing I picked up from A.P. European History.

"This one is one of my favorite pieces," Moriarty said, stopping in front of a wax statue of a Welsh goddess with a long, flowing white dress perched atop a beautiful white horse. Her long dark hair was curled into ringlets and her hand was outstretched to hold a robin. She was breathtakingly beautiful, but she scared me; her face looked exactly like mine. "Rhiannon," he said, "Goddess of the Moon, Magic, and Death."

"Please tell me Dorian didn't commission this."

"He didn't," he reassured, "although he has a few more – hideously tacky ones – in storage."

Thank heavens for little mercies. "So that would mean. . . you did. Why?"

"To keep him quiet and maintain my sanity. I figured if I had to keep looking at you, it might as well be an accurate depiction of your namesake."

"Ah. I'm in trouble, aren't I."

Moriarty smiled and started pulling me along again. "You realize you're either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid in coming here. Did you think I wouldn't recognize you?"

"No. . . that's kind of why I gave you my real name," I explained as I grabbed a vase as we passed by. "How could I possibly hide anything from Professor Moriarty?"

"Holmes is here, isn't he."

"I haven't seen him." It was true. Mostly. _But how did he know?_

"You're the distraction. It's almost insulting that Holmes thinks –"

"Yep. I am." I swung the vase as hard as I could and shattered it over his head. Moriarty immediately crumpled to the ground. The blow should have killed him, but he was still breathing. I couldn't waste any time, so I ran.

That was when I realized what the butler and Moriarty had done. They'd gotten me hopelessly lost in their maze of art. Not only that, someone had set off the alarm. Windows were already being blocked off by steel curtains and the doors were probably being locked too. Footsteps were coming – security guards. If anything, I would have to hide.

Didn't Moriarty say something about a storage? That could be helpful. So I found whatever staircase I could that went downward, hoping it would take me to storage. In one of the passages absent of art, flashlights suddenly filled the darkness, landing on me. I doubled back and went straight for the biggest statues I could find as the security guards chased after me.

I found a ridiculously large urn – perfectly my size – and scrambled in. Two seconds later, the guards swarmed the room, searching behind every art stand. I saw a few men pass by my urn, but thankfully, none looked down. It took thirty agonizingly long seconds for them to get far enough away that I could put my plan into action. I stood up, took one of my silver necklaces with a heavy pendant, swung it around for a couple seconds, and let it fly. I was down before it hit something. The noise seemed to do the trick. They followed the direction of the pendant, sure that I had gone down another hall.

I popped out of my urn and raced in the opposite direction of the guards, found a hall that said, 'Storage,' and barricaded myself in the room I discovered at the end of the hall. After pushing a couple more tables and filing cabinets in front of the door, I spun around and inspected the room. 'Tacky' was right. I couldn't believe how many wax figures Dorian had of me and him. It was scary. Terrifying. Horrific. Phantom-of-the-Opera-sort-of bad. Nevertheless, I had to find a place to hide.

There was a door out of the building, but where would I go? I was in the middle of nowhere, and even if I could hotwire a car – well, I didn't, so I was stuck. No matter where I ran, Moriarty would track me down. I had no choice but to hide and wait them out. So. . . What Would Holmes Do? (WWHD? ©)

_Bang!_ They were trying to get through my barricade, but it was freakishly solid, so they would be a while. Time to get to work.

Ten minutes and one chainsaw later, the guards broke through the tables and sculptures and started combing through the room. The were careful not to break anything, but their search was very thorough as they checked behind and under every piece, no matter how small. When they didn't find anything, they went back again and again, searching even closer. It was absolutely nerve-wracking, but I couldn't move or I would give myself away. AT least three stopped next to me, maybe even looked at me, and walked away. I couldnt' relax or react or I woudl risk discovery. Finally, they gave up.

"She's not in here," the leader reported.

"The door's unlocked over here!" another shouted his discovery. "I found it ajar. She must have run." He was wrong, but my plan depended on his not being corrected.

Moriarty's voice crackled over the radio. "She has nowhere to go. She's in the storage room. Keep looking!" He didn't even sound like I'd attacked him.

"We've combed through three times. _Rhiannon's not in here_," the leader insisted.

Oh, nerve-wracking, but I couldn't move because I'd taken the clothes and place of a wax figure of me as Joan of arc in chain mail, kneeling in prayer. I figured that I wouldn't last long just hiding_ behind _a statue of me, so I had to _be_ the statue. Plus, I was within the midst of several other of my clones. It was genius, as long as I held still.

Moriarty grumbled over the radio. "I'll be right there. _Don't move_." Oh dear.

"Sir, if she's gone, she has a ten minute head start. You should send –"

"She isn't running, just hiding."

I should be running, and the adrenaline racing through my system was telling me to do so. My absolute, desperate, unrequited need to _**move**_ was physically and emotionally painful.

The door to the storage room swung open with a _bang_ and Moriarty marched in. He stopped at the head of the aisle and laughed. "Brilliant. You're brilliant – smarter than I thought you were, Ms. Phan." He took a few more steps, each one echoing like gunshots across the room, coming closer. "Have you ever read 'The Purloined Letter'?" he asked his men. "Sometimes what you are searching for. . . is right in plain sight."

He stopped right in front of me, but did not look at me. His head was a little bloody, but he gave no sign of pain. It was just like what happened to Holmes. Hurt, but fine. What was going on?

"So, Ms. Rhiannon Phan. Will you continue to insult me by pretending you are made of wax? Or should I have these men put a bullet in the head of every figure in this room?"

They wouldn't do that, would they? Moriarty gave the signal, a gun with a silencer wen off, and Cleopatra-Rhee lost her head. Another shot, and Rapunzel-Rhee lost an eye. Maybe now would be a good time to surrender. But hope froze me to my spot, my knuckles turning white as I gripped my sword.

"It's only a matter of time before we either kill you, or you surrender."

"She probably went out the air vent or something."

Moriarty, a little peeved that his guards were so dense, grabbed a gun from one of his men – no silencer – and fired at the figure two away from me. Poor Marie Antoinette–Rhee. She fittingly lost her head. The shot was so loud, I though for sure I had given myself away with a gasp. He fired again and the Madame de Pompadour-Rhee received a hole in her chest. (At least, I think it was the Mme. de Pompadour. He kind of had a French theme going with this line.)

Then he came to me, and I braced for the shot, which might not come. He could change his mind. Right? _Right?_

Suddenly, the butt of his gun connected with the back of my head and I toppled off my pedestal, my sword clanging to the ground. I blacked out for a couple seconds and turned over to face the wrong end of several guns. "Interesting choice of costume," said Moriarty as he yanked me to my feet. In an instant, the guards had me in handcuffs behind my back. Two of them, one on each arm, dragged me out of the room.

I was taken to an empty, white room with a table and a chair. Set on top of the table was a bit of medical tubing, a pair of latex gloves, and a syringe filled with something. Moriarty came in and washed his hands in a sink behind me. I finally realized that the room reminded mem of a mini-hospital. "What's in that needle?" I asked through clenched teeth.

"Why do you hate hospitals so much? More importantly, why fear needles?" He snapped on the latex gloves. My right arm was unlocked and extended onto the table. "Perhaps a bad experience with needles. Or is it the feeling of metal inside your skin? Or was it your grandmother?"

"How did you –"

"Research, my dear. She died of cancer. The doctors tried to save her, but the medicine they gave her seemed to kill her faster than the cancer did." He rolled up my sleeve and tied the medical tubing around my upper arm. "Now, 'Hospital' is another word for 'Death House.'" His cold, expert fingers tapped my arm a couple times, searching for a vein.

"_What is in that syringe?_" I snapped.

"Just a sedative," he said calmly as he slid the needle into my vein. I couldn't watch him do it. I tried to scream, but it caught in my throat. It only took a few minutes seconds, but they were filled with absolute terror. Moriarty waited a couple seconds, then raised an eyebrow in confusion.

"Was that supposed to knock me out?" When Moriarty only furrowed his brow further, I explained, "It won't work. I swallowed an entire bottle of sleeping pills a week ago and I still couldn't sleep. Made me really sick, though. I knew I couldn't sleep, but I _had_ to keep trying. Man, that was miserable. . . Ugh." I could feel the sedative start to take effect.

That seemed to satisfy him. My arm was freed from the tubing and my wrist put back in the cuff. Then I was led out of the room with Moriarty and out to a car. We sat in the back and one of the guards took the wheel. We were escorted by two other black sedans.

I rode with my head between my knees to keep from dry heaving.

"This is leather upholstery," Moriarty warned.

"I haven't eaten in three days. I don't think anything's going to come out."

"You can't survive –"

"Just shut up. I'll tell you later."

"Perhaps Holmes would be more willing to explain."

"Wait. . . you caught – never mind. I'll worry later."

* * *

(1) What super powers? Well, I can talk nonstop without breathing for about two minutes, I can run forever without having to take a break, and I can run cars into trees.


	6. This Is The Way The World Ends

**Sherlock Holmes v. The 21****st**** Century**

**This Is The Way The World Ends**

I was so miserable that I couldn't worry about Holmes' capture. All I could focus on was trying to sleep while trying to stay awake. My blood was burning from the reaction to the two chemicals – Snape's accelerant potion v. Moriarty's sedative. I hated it with a passion. Plus, it threw all my systems haywire. I should have worried about Holmes or if the Doctor escaped, but I didn't. I focused on the fact that my chain mail was cold and my tunic was a little crooked and the handcuffs weren't even and the guard on my right arm was pulling harder than the left one. Plus I was dizzy and I was seeing double and my eyes wouldn't focus. I felt like screaming and singing at the same time, but the dry heaving kept me quiet.

I was left in a dark and cold cell. When the guards locked me in and left, I tripped and hit the ground, unable to catch myself due to my hands being behind my back. Then, for some reason, my frustrations boiled up and I erupted into sobbing. While I was curled up, I slipped the handcuffs under by feet so I could use my hands to get rid of my tears. What did I have to be so emotional about? Nothing!

"Oh, shut up," said a crabby voice in the darkness.

"Sorry," I said, trying to stifle my blubbering. Wouldn't want to disturb my cell mate.

"Rhee?" said another, nicer voice. "Is that you?"

"Doctor?"

I felt hands on my shoulders turn me over and help me sit up. "What happened to you? You look terrible?"

"No wonder. Do you know how many times I've been knocked out today?

"Twice?"

"I've been manhandled enough to feel like a Mary Sue. I'm getting tired of it, especially when it's Holmes that knocks me out. Moriarty tried to drug me this time and it didn't work."

"But that tranquilizer could knock out a bear."

"Do I look like a bear to you?" I snapped, but then felt a surge of dizziness. "Ugh." And I meant it. My next mood swing would probably make me unbearably grumpy.

"Try to sleep it off," advised the irritated voice from before.

"I haven't slept in over two weeks," I growled, "and I don't think the trend is going to change now."

"Give it a shot," he replied. Otherwise meaning, _shut up_. So I laid down on the ground, using the Doctor's leg as a pillow, and tried to relax. The most I could accomplish was keeping my eyes shut and holding still as best I could, although I had to keep moving my hands to make the effort possible, clenching and shaking them constantly.

"Doctor," I whispered, "how many people are in here?"

"Mmmm, about ten. Most of them keep to themselves. That was Dr. House. You sort of woke him up."

"Right. Wait. Dr. House as in House M.D.?"

"Exactly. Now, can I ask why you're wearing chain mail?"

"I decided to dress up a Joan of Arc to hide from Moriarty. Apparently I didn't do very well."

"Storage room?" he guessed.

"Yup. It almost worked."

Chuckles filled the small room. Apparently they knew about the wax figures. I wonder if they were taken on a tour of the art museum. With Dorian's arrogance coupled with his stupidity, probably. "Hey, can we get some light in here?" a younger voice asked, and the room was suddenly illuminated by a bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling.

The room was made of steel, but surprisingly warm. The occupants ranged from a twelve year-old boy to middle aged men. Most of them were napping in cots that lined the sides of the room. A couple of them, including the Doctor, sat on the floor as the rest of the cots were full. I noticed that House had staked a claim on a cot. There were a few wooden tables and some benches set up with used dishes and chess boards taking up half the space.

My fellow prisoners all woke up from their various stages of sleep, sat up, and opened their eyes as best they could. As soon as they got a good look at me, the room burst into laughter. Yup. They'd seen it.

"Shut up!" I whined. "It's not funny."

"Alright," said the Doctor, "leave her alone."

So, as the gentlemen they were, they quieted down and ignored me. For the most part. There was still the occasional snicker as I tried to relax for the next couple of hours. I continued to stare at the wall, shake my hands and try to ignore the pins and needles in my bloodstream. The Doctor tried to keep himself occupied by untangling my mess of hair, but seeing as it was quite short, that didn't take long to get boring. Dr. House, once in a while, would come down to my level with a bit of difficulty, to take my pulse or check my temperature or something. He was mostly worried about my pulse. "Stop moving your hands," he would order. I honestly would try, but I just couldn't, and I would snap at him until he went away.

It went on like this for a while. Over a couple hours, I learned who most of these people were. Bruce Wayne had given up on sleep and started a game of chess with twelve-year-old Artemis Fowl, and was losing miserably. The Hardy Boys had started a rock-paper-scissors match and one of them was bound to be stuck doing chores for a month. Detective Robert Goren (from Law and Order: Criminal Intent) was content to just stare at me with his head cocked. Actually, it was kind of creepy. Doctor Joseph Bell busied himself with a bit of clean-up duty, a 20-ish Arthur Conan Doyle was working on a bit of homework with Charles Epps giving him some math pointers.

The tranquilizer didn't just wear off. As soon as Snape's adrenaline won the battle in my bloodstream, I leaped to my feet and screamed --er -- _demanded _that someone help me get out of my handcuffs. I think they were shocked out of their silence at my sudden recovery. The Doctor limped to his feet (I put his leg to sleep) and somehow tricked the handcuffs into opening. The first thing I did with my newfound freedom was request an escape plan. There was a general moan of disapproval. "What? Oh, come on! Don't tell me some of the brightest minds of literary history haven't been plotting an escape. _'Brightest minds' excluding the Hardy Boys, of course._"

"No," snapped Artemis Fowl. "We've only been able to discover three hidden cameras, four vents designed to deploy poisonous gasses that can't kill us, an impenetrable lock, and an alarm system that is far too easily tripped. There are at least four other rooms like this that we know of filled with scientists and philosophers and spies and _wizards_ for Gods sake. Who knows how many think tanks Moriarty has in his possession."

"This is good to know," I chirped, refusing to let my temper and my ego get out of hand. I was surprisingly chipper considering how miserable I'd been. "Do you know who else specifically they might have?"

"No," Bruce Wayne replied gravely. "There was one man called Hanibal Lector, but he has his own cell and refuses to speak to anyone. We were all told that others would die if we escaped. Of course, that didn't stop Dr. House here from –"

Realization finally dawned on me. "Holmes."

"No, it's 'House,'" Dr. House corrected.

"They caught him?" the Doctor said incredulously.

"I think so, but that's not the point. You! Mr. Wayne. What do you observe about me?"

He was a little startled at the question, but he answered, albeit reluctantly. "You're American, you'll be going to college soon, although you're worried about the costs. You have no sense of direction, you live in a small town, so your lack of direction isn't much of a problem. I'd say you live somewhere in the west. You absolutely hate hospitals, needles and drugs, but doctors don't bother you. Perhaps a parent works in the medical field."

"Very good," I cut him off. "Just like Holmes. Look at this. We've got doctors and detectives and criminal masterminds and an amazing mathematician. Brilliant people, but why are you kept here rather than being infected with the Shadow Beasts and sent to fight as generals? Because you don't just know stuff, you know how to think, and what you might think or figure out is far more dangerous. You all use Observation and Deduction exactly like Sherlock Holmes."

"We know!" a chorus of voices responded. I could detect a hint of boredom coupled with a load of patronization.

"So then why haven't you broken out yet?" I said as scathingly as possible.

"What's the point?" Charlie Epps asked. "I mean, we have nowhere to go, no idea what's going on, and people will be seriously injured if we do. Unless you have a detailed blueprint of this building–"

"No sense of direction, remember? Besides, I have something better than a blueprint. Weapons." I then turned my pockets inside out and let the silver cascade to the ground. It took several seconds to get all of it out. Most of the men's eyes lit up.

Detective Robert Goren's face turned into a grimace. "Don't you remember the cameras? Or the vents?"

Suddenly, the vents opened up with a _hiss_ and ugly yellow gas started pouring forth. A groan of annoyance went through the room. I would have remarked that they seemed to have done this before, but my eyes and lungs were stinging and burning in pain, keeping me from speaking. Joseph Bell ordered that the silver quickly be hid in everyone's pockets. I have no doubt that this was done quickly. I felt someone – probably the Doctor – pull me down away from the gas and into a corner. How was I the only one a gasping, hacking mess? Someone placed a cold, wet cloth over my mouth and nose and told me to breathe.

"She's from this world, isn't she?" I heard Dr. House ask The Doctor. (Gah, that's confusing! Too many doctors in the same room!) "Okay, Rhee, listen to me. You're the only one here that isn't from some book or soap or whatever. You're also the only one that's actually being hurt by the gas."

The Doctor caught on. "That would explain why Holmes wasn't hurt by the car wreck earlier."

I tried to get a straight answer out of them. "_What–_"

The Doctor explained further. "He's not from this world, so he can't be killed by anything in it. None of us can. That's why Dorian's army is so unstoppable. You, on the other hand, are the only person in this room that can be killed." I heard an unmistakable laugh of intuition from him. Why my impending death was such a revelation, I couldn't understand. "Rhee, Moriarty probably doesn't want you dead, so we're going to take you to the door just in case he opens it." I nodded and he proceeded to pretty much drag me to wherever the door was.

There was a gap at the floor where cool air was leaking inside. My face was placed near that. The fresh air helped clear my head a bit. It was then that I understood that I was hearing the rest of the room coughing and hacking too. Their kindness struck me with a sudden wave of emotion. I refused to break down into crying, but a few tears could be explained by the gas.

A minute later, Bruce Wayne started complaining. "Where are they? The guards should be here by now."

"Maybe it will take some minor destruction of their property," one of the Hardy Boys suggested.

The Doctor had just the thing. No, it wasn't the bomb. He dug down deep into his pockets and found – _voila!_ – the sonic screwdriver. Funny how they hadn't thoroughly emptied our pockets. Anyway, one zap, two zap, and two of the cameras turned into a light display of sparks. He aimed at the third. "If you don't want this room to be completely unsupervised, you'll get Rhee out of here before I count to ten. One."

"You sound like my mother," I growled. "I hear footsteps." I sat up and got out of the door's way. A second later, it snapped open. I was so glad I chose the right side of the door to wait on. Anyway, as soon as they saw me on the ground, two of the guards grabbed my arms and dragged me out in an undignified fashion. Then the door slammed shut again and I heard the Doctor's screwdriver fry the mechanism, sealing them in. I don't know what he was planning, but it didn't make sense to me. How much good could they do locked in a box?

The guards dragged me down the halls and into a room where they dropped me and locked me in. A long string of curses uttered by someone who picked me up off the ground clued me in to the fact that I was not alone. He carried me to a chair in the center of the room and made sure I was comfortable. There was a metal table in front of me. I put my face down on that. My chain mail clinked annoyingly against it. Holmes took the chair next to me. "Why didn't you listen to me Rhiannon?" he muttered.

"Because I'm an idiot, Holmes. What else did you expect?"

"I knocked you out. Wasn't that clear enough?"

"Yes, thank you for that, by the way. Can I shoot you now?"

"You probably got Miss Russell caught too, didn't you. Of course you did."

"That actually can't be verified. I was supposed to be a distraction, and distract I did. There's a slight chance she got away. And before you ask, the chain mail was a failed disguise."

"Storage Room?"

"Yup."

He laughed. "I would like to have seen that. Feeling better yet?"

"I think I can breathe. And see. That's about all we're going to ask for right now. I hate Moriarty. So while you're torturing him down in Hell, do you mind if I throw in a few punches?"

"Be my guest."

"_Yes!_ So, how are we going to get out?"

"Rhiannon, really! Don't you remember the cameras at all? Everything we say is being listened to and watched. So, no. I don't have an escape plan."

"Or just one that you're not going to tell me about?"

"No."

"Are you figuring one out now?"

"No."

"Will you?"

"No."

"You are useless!"

"Look who's talking! You can't help but manage to get yourself captured, beaten up, and nearly killed in the process! I at least can make _some_ progress in this case."

"Progress! Like _what_? Oh, right. Cameras."

"Rhiannon. . . do us both a favor and keep your mouth closed for three minutes."

I glared. And complied. I sat up straight, crossed my arms, and glared daggers at his worn-out form. I waited very patiently for him to give me permission to speak again, but as I sat, I also observed. His breathing was very shallow and he favored his left hand. Broken ribs? Broken wrist? His left eye was completely swollen shut with a ring of a bruise surrounding it and two knuckles on his right hand were burst and bleeding. What an idiot I was complaining and arguing like a – I can hardly say the word – a Mary Sue when Holmes had obviously been caught in a nasty scuffle. Still, I couldn't help but wonder what the state of the other guy was.

An eternity and a half later, Holmes spoke. "Amazing. I didn't think you could do it. I'm –"

"What the heck happened to you?!" I snapped. "You look horrible! Never mind, I probably know. I bet Moriarty showed you the security footage from my cell. You got mad at the guards when you saw they were gassing me. And that," I pointed at his eye, "was probably when you got caught initially. Must have knocked you right out."

He chuckled. "Good to see you've learned _something_ from me."

"I know. Shock and awe, right? So how long until Moriarty comes back?"

Right then, the door snapped open and Moriarty with two guards marched into the room. I noticed that Holmes moved protectively closer to me. It didn't escape Moriarty either; he raised one eyebrow and smiled mischievously. "This should be easy."

"You wouldn't dare," Holmes growled.

"Yes he would," I corrected. "Dare what?" One of the guards pulled out a baseball bat. "Oh. Um, you know, maybe we can handle this without violence."

"That's not a bad idea, Ms. Phan," Moriarty agreed. "All I want is information, Holmes. For instance, the location of the key you stole from me."

"You have a spare," Holmes replied flatly. "You don't need mine."

"The spare was stolen too."

"What about Dorian's?"

"His was fake."

What key?! Gah, this was frustrating! But what was so important about that key? Obviously it operated something big, something important, something that Dorian thought he operated too. What was that thing that brought all these characters into my world? I heard Dorian name it. One of the Shadow Beasts at Hogwarts named it too.

"The Bridge," I realized. "The key operates the Bridge, the device that brings characters from their respective worlds to mine."

"You know about the Bridge?" Moriarty and Holmes chorused incredulously.

"Dorian's a bit of an idiot when it comes to keeping secrets. And yes, I can pay attention when I need to. Did you know that adrenaline helps you remember things? And you know, I've had Snape's potion running through my system for so long that I practically have photographic memory. So little things that Dorian says that make no sense whatsoever, I can remember now, providing little parallels and tie-ins throughout this little experience."

Moriarty didn't really know what to think of me. First off, I willingly walked into his museum, knocked him out, almost eluded his guards, couldn't be knocked out by his tranquilizer, smuggled in lethal amounts of silver, was walking around making sarcastic cracks after being gassed, and now I knew too much because of my photographic memory. I wouldn't get me either. A moment later, however, he made up his mind with what to do with me. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, ordering, "Bring them."

I hung onto Holmes' arm as we stumbled out into the hall. Moriarty and his guards walked swiftly to whatever it was they wanted to show us. My guess was some sort of torture chamber. Holmes' guess – sorry, _deduction_ – was the Bridge.

Straight through a set of glass double-doors, I found out Holmes was right.

We were on a balcony or platform overlooking the entire scene. The Bridge really looked like a bridge – no surprise there. Dorian's names weren't very creative. The odd thing was that there was only half a bridge. This blue ramp with white railings on the sides extended towards the wall, met it, and ended right at the center. At first, I thought the wall was made of mirrors, but a closer look told me it was made of windows. Perfect white cottage windows stretched up to the ceiling, the white bars creating a feeling of simplicity. They were covered by white gossamer curtains that swayed every time someone walked past. It was absolutely gorgeous. At the base of the Bridge, wires sprouted out, connected to various machinery and power sources. They were a bit of a let-down.

Surrounding the Bridge were four massive blue generators and two controller stations. One seemed to monitor the generators and any power flows. The other must have controlled the Bridge itself. The people in charge of that one didn't have much to do. The rest of the room was like a hangar. There were ships of all kinds that filled the room. Space ships, pirate ships, airplanes, gliders, a TARDIS – wait, the TARDIS?

I felt Moriarty's hand on my shoulder point my focus towards the Bridge, away from the control panels. He was playing the tour guide again. (He definitely had a talent.) "The glass allows us to watch other worlds through their mirrors. Of course it works both ways, so the curtains keep them from seeing us. With enough power, we can draw characters directly out of the world, through the glass doors, and right into this one."

He continued his little tour, leading us down some stairs to the main level. I was still clutching Holmes' arm, which was probably painful for him, but he didn't complain. We stopped at the control panel in charge of the Bridge and Holmes and I knew Moriarty wanted – no, needed the key right this minute. But he was calm. He knew what he was doing.

"Do you know why or how the Bridge can work, Ms. Phan?"

"Oh please don't tell me you've fallen into that horrible cliché villain role and are going to start a melodramatic monologue."

"No monologues. Just an explanation. You know that there are parallel worlds just like ours, but a little different and just like parallel lines, they will never meet. There shouldn't be a way to break a path from one parallel world to another. However, Dorian discovered the secret to breaking free; he wrote fanfiction.

"Now, fanfiction isn't generally quality work, and Dorian's was far from good, but in this day and age, people read them. Thanks to the World Wide Web and places like Fan Fiction dot net, these stories can reach millions upon millions of viewers. All these people reading these stories do something extraordinary: they bring an entire world to life. Dorian was different. Just like you, Ms. Phan, he broke through into a parallel universe and infected it with his Shadow Beasts, and rather than break the connection, he preserved it, nursed it, let the infection spread to nearly every world created by readers and viewers – the major exception being the Harry Potter universe."

"The human mind is extraordinary, isn't it," Holmes commented wryly. "All these people thinking about the same thing forced an entire world into existence. And not just once – millions upon millions of times over. It's unbelievable."

"So your machine, this Bridge, can only reach the worlds created by us," I concluded. "That's why your only soldiers have been characters, and why your Shadow Beasts can infect the people of this world."

"Precisely. Now, I have a tight schedule to keep if I'm going to rule millions upon millions of worlds. I believe Las Vegas is next on my list."

"Although I have no argument with destroying the City of Sin, I don't think they have many libraries," I blurted out. On second thought, maybe I should have shut up.

Moriarty was not amused. "Regardless. . ." Suddenly, he grabbed one of my arms and spun me away from Holmes and into his grasp, jabbing a gun into my neck while he was at it. "I still need the key."

Holmes valiantly tried to tackle him, but the guards were quick to stop him and throw a punch to his gut. "Don't you _dare_ hurt her!" he shouted.

"The key, Holmes. We don't have all day." He pressed the gun harder against my neck, causing a little whimper to escape from me. "Neither does she."

Holmes glared at Moriarty for a long time. Too long. He could either save me and leave the world to its ultimate destruction in which we would both be killed anyway, or he could hide the key and hope to save the world later without me. His choice. Several agonizingly long seconds later, he made it. "Rhiannon –"

"No."

"Rhiannon, it's in your pocket."

"No!" I screamed as some slimy hands slipped into my pockets. One of them found a key and handed it to a blonde assistant, who looked eerily similar to Mary Russell. She turned to accept the key, giving me a better view. Yes, it was her.

Moriarty noticed how I was practically staring at Mary, like I knew her or something, so he dropped me and took a better look at her eyes. It only took him a second, and he seemed to be fine with what he found. "Next stop, Las Vegas," he ordered. "Release every library you can find within the city limits." When he was far enough away that I wouldn't be caught, I took a better look at Mary Russell's eyes. She knew what I was looking for. Her eyes were silver, but then she gave me a wink. Of course. Donovan.

Suddenly, alarms started going off like crazy. Holmes used the distraction to knock out two of the guards. I took off one of my necklaces, one of the thick silver chains, wrapped it around my hand, and punched the guard closest to me. I knocked him out, but ended up with a hand that felt completely shattered. Holmes noticed and chuckled at my steaming expression as I tried to stem the flow of profanities that were threatening to break free. "Remind me to teach you how to throw a decent punch. Come! The game is afoot!"

Holmes dragged me away from the control center just as all chaos broke loose. I saw the Doctor leading a ragtag army of prisoners, every one armed with a bit of silver. They attacked all those in their way, tearing them down and disabling the controllers. The Doctor and Mary Russell were the ones in control of both the Bridge and its power.

"What was the deal with the key?" I asked as we ran towards the ships. "You were just going to give it to him anyway."

"Exactly. All we needed was time. Hurry!" Holmes wove through the various ships, clearly aiming for the Doctor's TARDIS. As soon as he found it (without much trouble this time), he unlocked it and threw me inside. "Wait here," he ordered, slamming the door after him. I tried to chase back after him, but the door was locked. Obviously he had locked me in to keep me safe. I instantly vowed to beat the crap out of him when he returned.

The TARDIS had a screen like a computer monitor attached to the console. It flickered on and showed me the scene outside, which didn't help me too much. I could see plenty of people scattering, but I couldn't figure out which ones were Holmes or the Doctor or Mary. What I could see quite clearly, however, was the Bridge exploding in a massive fireball.

I barely heard it, and the only thought that passed through my head was panic over the fact that Holmes wasn't in the TARDIS, safe and sound like me. The blast shook the ship and knocked me off my feet. I landed hard on my head, or at least that's what I assumed. For some reason, my head was burning and screaming in absolute pain.

A second later, I heard the door open and several running footsteps rush inside. I saw the Doctor race to the console and immediately start up the ship to get us out of there. I felt the ship being rocked by another blast, then another. We were like beans in a shaker, being knocked about, and every time we hit another bump, I was tossed again and something else began burning in pain. "Something's gone wrong," the Doctor shouted. "The power overload destroyed the Bridge, but it's not stopping."

"Maybe your bomb has something to do with it," Holmes said.

"Never used it. This blast is _massive_. I can't get far enough away. It's already engulfed the earth."

"Try the moon, another planet –"

"_I am in a completely different galaxy!_" The weight of his words finally sank in. The ship was still being rocked by ever increasingly colossal blasts. Earth was already gone, so was my solar system and my galaxy all the way on the other side of the universe.

The pain was growing worse, and I couldn't understand why. Maybe it wasn't from being knocked around after all. I mean, I've had worse. There was no rational explanation for this level of pain. I gathered in enough breath to call for help. "_Help!_" I cried weakly. "Holmes!"

His head snapped towards me and found me curled in a ball in a far corner of the room. Almost instantly, he was by my side, pulling me away from the wall. "What's happened to her? Is it the gas?"

"No," the Doctor replied gravely. "She's dying with her universe. If we're lucky, we might escape into another one, but she has no chance."

I'm _what?_ Dying? That would explain the pain. And suddenly, my hope ran dry. I closed my eyes despite Holmes' protests telling me to fight. It was so easy to just fade away. I suppose Death is like sleep – you just have to let it take you when it comes to the point when you can't fight. So I tried to fall asleep. The last thing I remember was T.S. Eliot, oddly enough. I remembered the last stanza of his poem, "The Hollow Men." _This is the way the world ends/This is the way the world ends/This is the way the world ends/Not with a bang but a whimper._ And that's all I ever heard when my universe died: my whimper.


	7. This Is The Department Of Literary Abuse

**Sherlock Holmes v. The 21****st**** Century**

**This Is The Department Of Literary Abuses**

Death was kinder than I thought it would be. It was soft and warm and wrapped me up in plenty of blankets – fleece blankets. My favorite kind. I felt perfect. I wasn't in pain, I wasn't exhausted or worn out, I wasn't keyed up, I had no worries, and I had no anxieties. I could have stayed in that state forever, but I had slept long enough. It was time to explore.

I opened my eyes to find myself in a white room. _Oh good_, I thought. _I made it to heaven._ _Nice to know. _With nothing to worry about, I sat up and couldn't help but be struck with the significance of that action. It was like I had slept like a normal human being, and I didn't feel keyed up. In fact, I felt groggy, and I squealed with delight at the thought.

My room was a perfect rectangle with an open door on the far wall to the left and a window behind my head. It was like a hotel room. There was a night stand on my right with a softly glowing lamp atop it and a notebook and pen set in its drawer. In a lower drawer, I found a binder covered with blue and yellow-spaghetti colored fabric filled with papers printed off of the internet. The dresser stood in an unassuming corner. Upon inspection, I found it held my chain mail and tunic from when I dressed up like Joan of Arc. Oh my. How long ago was that? Ages.

It was morning, according to the window. Bright butter yellow sunlight filtered through the white gauzy curtains that swayed with the gentle breeze from outside. The building I now resided in was placed right in the middle of a lush, green, romantic forest. I loved the offset of white aspen bark against the greens of maples and evergreens. Somewhere deeper in there, blue jays and canaries were singing their welcome to the sun while the woodpeckers and squirrels were getting to work. If I could walk through this forest, I bet that I wouldn't find any annoying ants or rotten logs or surprise spiders. It was like a fairy-tale.

A crash of dishes broke me out of my reverie and I turned around to see who had dropped them. There was nothing in the doorway except for an overturned tea tray with spilled tea and sugar running into each other, creating a brown, crystalized mess. I thought I should help clean it up, but the blue-spaghetti binder caught my attention. Sitting on my bed, I flipped through the pages. I recognized them immediately. They were pages of _my_ story that came from Fan Fiction dot net. Everything that I had written, everything that I was currently writing, everything having to do with Holmes and me, from Tamal to Feardorcha, from Undead Dumbledore to Infatuated Dorian, from the introduction of Shadow Beasts to the appearance of Moriarty.

But who was this? This name at the top of each of the chapters: Sherlock Holmes Skittle who took credit for every word that I had written, every adventure that I had gone through. Who was he or she to take my life like this. I felt loathing roll out of my core and vent through my ears.

"Rhiannon?" Holmes' worried voice snapped my attention away from the binder to him. I felt my jaw drop open and my eyes go wide. He was standing in my doorway dressed like a proper Victorian Gentleman and absolutely at a loss for words. Right behind him was another girl with her hands over her mouth, dumbfounded at the sight of me. She was somewhat attractive, dwarfed by Holmes' height, clearly overweight, and had shoulder-length brown hair. Tea was spilled all over her jeans. She must have been the one that dropped the tray and ran to get Holmes. He gave her a word of thanks before she ran off. "Rhiannon –" he started again.

"Oh, no. Not you."

He was very startled by my sentence that he couldn't get a coherent one out. "Sorry. I – I could. . . go. I didn't know you didn't want –"

"Well, it's nice that you made it up here with me, but I was kind of hoping you wouldn't have come to the afterlife in the first place."

He pulled another double take, but this one was better. "I – you're not dead. _We're_ not dead. You were touch and go for a while, but you're not dead. You're not dead." He enjoyed saying that, if not for my benefit, for his. I could see a smile struggling to emerge from his stony facade.

"Oh. That's a relief. I kind of enjoy being alive. Especially when you're alive too." The relief was overwhelming and I could feel tears leaking out. It was like I was unconsciously fraught with panic over Holmes for weeks and all that happiness was coming out. I got off the bed and stood right in front of him so my head was tilted almost all the way back just so I could look at his face. "Okay, seeing you in 19th century garb is reminding me of all that Victorian Era emotionlessness of gentlemen, and yet I have a growing and undeniable need for a hug. So. . ." I wrapped my arms around his waist and refused to let go. Immediately, he returned the embrace and I was enveloped in his bony bone-crushing arms. Just what I needed just when I remembered just why I was almost dead. The Doctor told me I was going to die, my friends, family and world were already dead, and Moriarty had practically won seeing as how he didn't lose either. Oh, lord, how could I _not_ cry.

I sobbed for what seemed like hours. My guilt and despair that rotted my stomach were quite the contrast to the happiness I had felt earlier. What was it with my emotions? My anger was hardwired into my fists, and my tear ducts went trigger happy when I felt anything else unpleasant. I tried to keep my tears from soaking his coat, but inevitably they made a dark patch right where my eyes were. What an amazing, longsuffering Sherlock Holmes. His kindness was touching, but slightly suspicious. "Thank you Holmes. This is a change from last time." (Refer to the hug in _Dungeons and Dragons v. Detecting and Deduction_, Chapter Three.) "What's different?"

"You warned me."

"And?"

"You would have tackled me anyway."

"And?"

"You witnessed a massive tragedy."

"And?"

"You were crying. It would be very unkind of me to do nothing but hand you a handkerchief."

"Speaking of which. . ."

"Of course." He pulled back to pull a handkerchief out of his pocket to give to me.

As I was drying my face up, I took a seat on the floor with my back against the bed. Holmes took a seat next to me. "Sorry to subject you to this," I apologized. "Our culture is quite open and honest with their emotions. At least, I am."

"I noticed. It's not a bad thing."

I gave him a small smile, then said nothing. I couldn't think of anything to fill the silence, and neither could Holmes. There wasn't anything that could, so we stared at the wall for quite a while, both of us happy to know the other was there, alive and well. For nearly an hour, I watched the sunlight and shadows of leaves dance across my walls and listened for the songbirds perched on my window. It was a lovely time, mostly because I had a good balance in my head between happiness and contentment and absolute despair. With Holmes where I could see him, I could keep it balanced.

There was a knock at my door and we both turned our heads like clockwork dolls to see who it was. It was that girl from before, hiding behind the door like a shy schoolgirl. No. More like a Sherlock Holmes fan who was scared of actually meeting The Master himself. "Uh, the Director was thinking that we should call a meeting to explain everything."

"We'll be there. Ten minutes."

"Who are you?" I asked as politely as I could, but I think an edge escaped into my voice as shown by how she swallowed nervously before stepping into the room.

"Valerie Scott," she said, extending her hand to me. I hesitantly shook it. "I've wanted to meet you for a long time."

I was confused. "How do you know me?"

"Do you mind if I explain that at the meeting?"

"Absolutely not. Let's go." I wanted answers _now_, and if I had to beat the crap out of her, I would. I stood up, grabbed her wrist, and started dragging her out the door.

"Are you sure you don't want to get dressed? You're still in your pajamas," she pointed out. Admittedly, she did have a point. Someone had dressed me in light, white clothes that felt see-through but probably weren't. I hadn't noticed how I hadn't really felt them before, and suddenly, I felt so exposed. I dropped Valerie's wrist and sort of curled up into a ball. "There should be more clothes in the dresser," she explained

Not when I checked before. Holmes had subtly slipped out of my room to give me my privacy, so I unashamedly raided the dresser. Suddenly, there was a drawer devoted to my old clothes, one to jeans, one to shirts, and one to unmentionables. Oh, the perfect wardrobe. I could hardly decide what to wear first. Light blue jeans with a white sweater, or light blue jeans with a white tank, or light blue jeans with a white collared shirt? I had a sneaking suspicion that either someone had accidentally slipped some bleach into my load of laundry, or there was a uniform in this place that consisted of white clothing only. I chose to go with the collared shirt.

"It would be nice if I had some green in here or something," I mumbled as I pulled on my jeans. After slipping on a cami, I took another look at my collared shirt. Somehow, it had gone from a blinding white to the perfect mint-y green. It even smelled like mint. I took a closer look at the tag. "Property of the DOLA. We Manufacture Imagination," I read aloud. "Odd. What's the DOLA?" There had to be another logo somewhere. So I put on my shirt and started exploring.

My starting point was the bathroom, and as soon as I saw the mirror above the sink, I screamed. My eyes were red, my face was pale, and my hair was a greasy disaster. How long had I been out? I found some shampoo underneath the sink, squirted some in my hair, and proceeded to wash it in the sink. There are some benefits to having short hair. Just for good measure, I scrubbed and rinsed it three times. From the state of the oil buildup, I guessed that I hadn't washed my hair in about three or four days, although after four days, it all just feels the same. When I was done, I had a wet mess atop my head, but that was better than a greasy mess. Speaking of not washing for a few days. . .

I sniffed under my arm and nearly gagged. Oh, crud, how had Holmes stood to be near me? I resolved that I would either have to use a ton of deodorant or just have to be late to the meeting cleaning myself up. I decided on the latter. Since there wasn't a shower, I had to improvise using washcloths from under the sink and the hand soap. Within five minutes, I was scent-free except for the smell of lavender soap. Then, for good measure, I took advantage of some deodorant. When I found myself presentable, I decided it would be safe to exit the bathroom.

Then I remembered why I went into the bathroom in the first place. I opened the drawers to look for more DOLA logos, but they were bare. All the shirts and jeans had vanished. I ran my hands over the pine, desperately searching for a hidden door or something, but all I came up with was splinters. I moved to the bed and tore it apart looking for tags on the sheets or something, but came up empty handed. My next victim was the bathroom, but when I turned back to it, the door was completely gone. It was like the movie Labyrinth when everything vanished right when you needed it.

I was just about to find a hammer and start beating the wall out, when there was a knock at my door. I jumped at the sound, hitting my head on an open dresser drawer. "Yeah?"

"Just wondering if you were going to come sometime today. It occurred to me that you haven't seen any part of this building other than your room so I came to escort you," said Holmes. I felt blood rush to my face as I scrambled to my feet and ran out the door, slamming it shut behind me so he couldn't see the mess I'd created. In my haste, I stumbled over my own feet, only to be caught by him before I could hit the floor again. "Wreaking havoc on your poor little room?" he asked teasingly.

"I can explain. No I can't. Which way is the meeting?"

Down the hall, second left, down the stairs, make a sharp right, pass three doors, in the fourth one on the right.

We entered a white room (surprise, surprise) with a long table down the center surrounded by hardback plastic chairs. Most of the attendees had arrived. Valerie sat in the center of the left side while the Doctor and Professor Snape sat at the far end of the other side. Mary Russell felt the need to pace around the room for some odd reason. At the head of the table sat a thoroughly middle aged lady with grey hair pulled back into a tight bun. I recognized her immediately as none other than Mrs. Hudson.

"Rhiannon," she said as soon as she saw me. "Good to see you awake and well. Please take a seat."

"Hi Mrs. Hudson. What are you doing here?"

"I'm the Director."

"Of what?"

"The Department of Literary Abuses. Didn't Mr. Holmes tell you?"

I glared at him. "No." Thanks for making me look like an idiot. "What else have I missed?"

"Quite a bit."

"Let's start with my universe. What happened?"

"We don't need to talk about _that_ right away. There are a few other matters–"

"Don't patronize me, because people have died and I'm not happy. I came here to get answers."

Mrs. Hudson was a little take aback by my sharp reply, but recovered nicely. "Valerie, why don't you explain. Is that alright?"

"Sure." She opened up a binder, gave me a small smile, and began. "As Mrs. Hudson said, this is the Department of Literary Abuses. It is one of the last surviving worlds besides mine and Professor Snape's. The Bridge destroyed every world it released into Rhee's world, then the blast destroyed more nearby worlds until there were only three, shielded, worlds left that survived the blast itself. I'm sure there are more that have survived, but we haven't been able to contact them."

"How long has it been?" I asked. "How long have I been out?"

"About a week. Don't worry. You weren't the only one. You just had it worse because your world was the epicenter. It's actually a miracle that you survived."

"So now what? I don't have a world to go back to, and there don't seem to be any surviving books. Do I just rot in despair?"

"No. Actually, I think I have a way to bring all that back. See I'm –"

"How?" I slammed a fist on the table in anger. "It's impossible."

"Remember that binder you found in your room? That's me. I'm Sherlock Holmes Skittle. I wrote everything you are. I'm your Author." She gave me a moment to let it sink in, almost begging, _'Please don't be mad. Please don't be mad.'_

"I wrote every word of that," I growled through my teeth. "You're nothing but a thief!"

"I know you did, Rhee. That was part of the story, but I plotted and wrote it first."

"Prove it. Where did my name come from?"

"'Rhiannon' doesn't have much of a basis other than I thought it was romantic. See, I bought a book in ninth grade called Goddesses; A World of Myth and Magic. My favorite was Rhiannon, goddess of the moon, magic and death. I thought it was very romantic, and it shortened to an awesome nickname: Rhee. I loved it, and I gave that name to my favorite character."

"I'm your favorite? That's sweet. You're lying."

"'Phan' has a bit more significance. In sixth grade, I had a friend whose last name was Phan. I got in a major tiff with her and didn't speak to her for two years. I can hold a grudge like no other. It's disgusting of me. In ninth grade, we made up, mostly because she made the effort. Since then, we were good friends. I loved her and cared about her, but I was never extremely close. Then she went off the wrong end. She moved out, lost contact with everyone, and her absence is marked with _stories_ and questions. I'm worried sick about her, and I guess naming you after her is my way of telling her that I still care about her."

"Think she reads it?"

"No. She used to make fun of me for reading _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ because I said I wanted to know everything about the Sherlock Holmes universe. She said I was a nerd and I would be very annoying. She was absolutely right."

She seemed to be telling the truth. It all came so easily to her, like she was recalling memories. Or a memorized script. Either way, she knew. If I started interrogating her, she would have answers to everything. Like when I was adopted (when I was a baby), or where my sister's name came from, or why I was so much like Basil when I wasn't directly related to him, or. . . or. . . "Why did you murder everyone? My friends and family are gone because of you. Why did you destroy my world? Was it just not good enough for you anymore? Did you lose interest like mine was some kind of Mary-Sue story that just got stuck?"

"No. I love your story, Rhee. There was one point that I lost interest, but that was a long time ago, and I'm over myself. I've been slow, but I've been steadily trying to finish your story, although I think there's more to come from you that can't be expressed in the fan fiction format. The problem was the plot. I wanted the Bridge destroyed at one point in order to wrap up the story. Unfortunately, I didn't realize how powerful it was, although I should have seen it coming in the last chapter of the Harry Potter crossover. Anyway, out of nowhere, it just took the whole universe with it. However, I was able to create this little world as a bit of a refuge. In and of itself, it's like a Mary-Sue 'verse; it's all-powerful, it can do anything, and it's a connection to all sorts of amazing people."

"Where exactly did everything go downhill?" Holmes cut in.

"I think it was the combination of the overload and the fact that you didn't send anyone back to their respective worlds. I'm not blaming you, I should have thought of that. The Bridge is more finicky than I planned. If the characters had been sent back first, then the Bridge was safely self-destructed, then things would have gone much smoother."

"What is the point of 'if only's?" I snapped. "It's not like we can just turn back time and undo everything."

"You realize I still have my TARDIS," the Doctor added.

"That only runs in your universe."

"Worked in yours. And Val's. And this one."

"But mine is dead. You can't time travel in a dead universe."

"There's also this newfangled device called an eraser," Valerie said with a smile. "And a backspace key."

"What are you saying? That you can undo everything up to a certain point and have us redo it?" The inspiration was odd, something that I wouldn't have come up with on my own. She must have been putting it into my head so I would look smarter. I hated the feeling of her absolute and total control.

"Something like that."

"It wouldn't work," Holmes argued. "We'd still know what we knew then and follow the same course. It wouldn't be logical to suddenly change our minds and follow a new path with no reason to do so. A Time Machine would yield marginally better results."

"Not necessarily. I'm a Writer. I can cheat. I can just send you back right where you were, but as you are now."

"But, the rules of the universe forbid –"

"She can bend and break these rules to her will," Professor Snape suddenly piped up. The man had been strangely silent and his sudden remark was a bit jarring. "Don't you see what you have here? An Author who is offering to help solve your problem herself. Authors don't _ever_ do that. She is sacrificing the quality of her story in order to make sure you survive the major conflict before you."

"He's right," Valerie said, pursing her lips. "I can put you back in this state of mind, but that's all I'm going to do. I have to make the subsequent battle as hard as possible for you, and yet exactly the sort of thing you can overcome."

"_Why?_" I screamed. "Haven't you made my life hard enough?! Haven't you _killed_ enough people?!"

"It's my _job_, Rhee!" she screamed back. "A story isn't made up of flowers and ponies. To make a story live, I have to create conflict and flaws and emotion! That's why Mary-Sues don't live – they don't have any of that. I give you obstacles and puzzles and arguments so you can breathe. Do you understand? I want you to _survive._" The girl was honestly crying; she was trying so hard to stifle the tears, but failing miserably. "I have to go." Nobody bothered to stop her from gathering her stuff up and running out the door.

I glared at her back. Holmes eyed me critically. "I loathed Doyle when I first met him. I hated how miserable and drug addled he made me, but then I realized that he gave me an amazing brain, Watson, and such fascinating cases to keep me entertained."

He had a point. If it wasn't for her, I never would have met Holmes. I never would have had a family or a generally happy and light-hearted existence or a purpose. And then it hit me. "Crud. Did I just get rid of our one and only way out of here?"

"No," said Mrs. Hudson with a smile. "Valerie's not _that_ cruel. She's going to prepare a Door to get you home." I could almost hear that capitol on 'Door.' That meant something interesting was behind it. "You handled that better than any of us expected. It will be a while before you're able to go home. In the meantime, Mr. Holmes, I think Rhiannon would enjoy a tour of the Department." With that, the meeting was concluded.

* * *

The Department of Literary Abuses is amazing. But it needs a new name. At some point I'll come up with something.

We started with Reception, which happened to be a massive cubicle farm teeming with life. Phones were ringing like crazy and they were answered and hung up just as quickly. The air was saturated with talking and orders and questions and answers. Runners and their carts wove through the cubicles delivering packages and memos and various stacks of paper. "They're recording information," Holmes explained. "New books, changes, new stories, and up and coming dangerous fan fiction. They also determine what needs to be fixed or created to keep fan fiction away from its original story. We have a vast network of Authors and Agents on call in case anything gets out of hand. Other than that, this is pretty boring unless you like hearing the hum of creativity turning into noise and chatter."

"Is this the only Reception?" I asked.

"No. There are several more rooms like this. We provide great summer work for college students in here."

Next was the Library. There was only one of these, but it was so big that it probably should have been split up. Just a little bit. I have never seen more books in my life. The bookshelves went up and up for forty or eighty feet and I couldn't see exactly how far down the room they went. There were over thirty of these bookcases stuffed with books. Had I been in charge of this many books, there would be piles on the ground and papers all over the place, but these were absolutely immaculate. They were arranged alphabetically by author just like a regular library, but I couldn't imagine how anybody could simply walk in and browse. To get to the books, there were tracks running up and down and across the shelves so ladders could slide across and so little carts could run around the shelves. Simply climbing would have been too exhausting for the librarians and apparently there was a lot to retrieve and return. Plus, there were little white robots with arms designed to grab books, baskets to hold them, and some sort of device that let them fly around the bookcases and find books.

"Where do all these come from?" I asked, staring at the robots.

"They come from the past, present, and future of your world. The Department's timeline is independent of yours, so we are able to collect various books from any time we need. Plus we like to create a bit of a stockpile and have books in reserve in case something should happen."

"So is _that_ where the robots come from?" I was quickly designing a t-shirt in my head with the general design of "I heart Little White Robots" or something to that extent.

"Actually, I think one of our agents invented them."

"Who are the Agents?"

"People specifically trained to enter different universes and fix problems. It's amazing how many we need now that fan fiction has become so popular."

"I wonder if I could become one. So, if this timeline is different from mine, is this. . . the future? . . . because I thought you were the Director."

"I was for twenty years, then Mrs. Hudson took over after I retired. But you're right; this is my future. I haven't served those twenty years yet, so I need to return to your world, then find a way to my world so I can come back to the Department to serve my years."

"How long has Mrs. Hudson been serving?"

"Sixty-two years."

"Wow. She's looking good."

"Aging doesn't work the same here as in any other world. For some reason, when people leave their universe to work here, they stop aging and live in nearly perfect health. We all could work here for thousands of years without dying, but most of our employees consider it unnatural and choose to return to their homeworlds after a few years of work."

"How do they get here in the first place?"

Then Holmes showed me what a 'Door' was. Down in the basement, there was a small, dark room lined with six ordinary doors, two on each wall except for the one we came through. In the middle was a modest desk and a relatively ancient computer. Apparently this little thing controlled all the Doors. Holmes looked over it. "This may need to be updated. It's been in use for eight years."

"I bet it keeps crashing by now."

"All we need from it is a Word Processing program. Other than that, the other programs could have cancer and we could keep working. The only people allowed to use it are agents, and they usually have the tools and know-how to fix it whenever something goes wrong. And if all else fails, they bring in their own computers."

"So how does it work. Wait, maybe I can figure this out. You only need something like Word or Corel, which means writing. Oh, I get it. The Agent writes themself an entrance to a world using one of these Doors as their literal door. They're just ordinary, aren't they. Just plain doors. But there are only six so that there aren't too many links open at once."

"Precisely. You're definitely developing a talent." He took a look at the screen. "It appears that we have someone off-world through Door Number Four." Just then one of the doors opened and Valerie stepped through. She was surprised to see the two of us in the room. "Welcome back, Ms. Scott. I noticed that you left your document unsaved."

"It's fine," she mumbled as she saved it to amuse him. "Nothing's going to happen to me."

"Safety protocols dictate. . ." He trailed off as Valerie gave him a dead-pan look. "Right."

She explained further. "It's easier for an Agent to open a Door to a world from here than vice versa. Even I can't do it. If their document were to be accidentally deleted, they could be stuck off-world for a long time while other Agents try to open the Door back up. Mr. Holmes is just kindly reminding me of this fact, except I wouldn't let an accident happen to me. I'm not _that_ dumb. I mean, I _wrote_ the protocols and _built_ the place."

Behind her, I could see the world she had just left. It was a complete disaster with clothes and papers and books piled into at least two distinct piles, maybe more. There was a coat-stand filled with scarves and hats, and a statue of Diana with a green scarf wrapped around her neck. A fold-up table with a laptop open atop it carried a stack of papers and a box full of beads. At least the bed was somewhat made up and the bookcase was organized by book height. I recognized it immediately. "That's my room," I said. "What are you doing in my room? Can I go in?" Without waiting for a response, I walked in.

"No!" she said, chasing after me. "It's my room. I just based yours off of mine."

"You have a little sister," I said. "Just like me."

"Yes. She used to live in here, then she moved into a different room and this became my own room. You know, my room's kind of messy, and –"

"I'm your favorite, right?"

"Yeah. I was going to use you for so many different stories, but you just belonged in the universe I set you in. I couldn't bring myself to making you an alien or something. Don't ask."

"I'm your favorite." And it felt good to know. I turned back to Valerie Scott, my Author to find her giving me a very strange look. "What?"

"Sorry, you're just off. I think my nervousness is affecting your character. I think the sooner I get you back to your world, the better. I just don't want you falling to pieces in my hands."

So she ushered me out of her room and sat down at the computer. I stood patiently behind her. "This is going to be a little different from the regular Door because I have to place you. It's actually going to act more like the mirror from the Harry Potter episode or the teleporter."

"What point of the story are we going in?" Holmes quietly asked.

"Um, how about right after they get the key from Rhee and right before you two beat up the guards."

"Speaking of which," I recalled, "you were going to teach me how to throw a decent punch."

Valerie raised an eyebrow as she typed. "Don't look at me. All I know is that you don't hold your thumb inside your fist. There's a tire iron and/or a crowbar in that corner over there," she gestured with her head. "That may be more effective." As I went to grab the weapons, she stopped typing to talk to Holmes. "You may need these," was all she said. I turned in time to see her handing something small and silver to him, which he quickly pocketed.

My suspicion flared, but it was quickly calmed. Then I remembered that Valerie was in control of my emotions, and quickly distrusted that calm. She didn't fight my emotions after that.

A minute later, she stopped typing completely. "Okay. I think I have it. You two can go straight through Door Number Two. Good luck."

Holmes tipped an invisible hat to her and proceeded to go through the door. The gesture made her smile, like they were enjoying some sort of inside joke. Holmes made it through with no incident, so my turn was next. But before I went. . . "Valerie?"

"Hm?"

"When I go through, can I get my chain mail back?"

"Um, sure. . . you know, it's not real. It wouldn't give you any real protection."

"I feel exposed without it. It's better than nothing."

"Okay. . ." She added a couple words to her document. "Go ahead."

The Door opened to a black chasm. I wasn't sure if there was a floor to walk on or if I was going to hit a wall. Holmes got through okay, but what about me? "What will you be doing?" I asked, trying to stall.

She was typing again. "Writing. Just writing. And trust me. You'll be fine going through that door. I really wouldn't try to kill you."

"Oh good. Um, will I ever come up with a good name for the Department?"

"Yes. It's awesome."

"You have it already? How long have you had it? What is it?"

"Not yet. You'll think of it later. Now, shoo."

I smiled. I think I liked her, even if she was larger than me and like to torture me. I faced the chasm, stepped forward, and fell.


	8. This Is Why I Learned How To Say Goodbye

**Sherlock Holmes v. The 21****st**** Century**

**This Is Why I Learned How To Say Goodbye**

"Rhiannon, it's in your pocket."

"No! Ew!" I screamed as some slimy hands slipped into my pockets. One of them found a key and handed it to a blonde assistant, who looked eerily similar to Mary Russell. She turned to accept the key, giving me a better view. Yes, it was her, but with silver eyes. Of course. Donovan.

Moriarty noticed how I was practically staring at Mary, like I knew her or something, so he dropped me and took a better look at her eyes. It only took him a second, and he seemed to be fine with what he found. "Next stop, Las Vegas," he ordered. "Release every library you can find within the city limits." When he was far enough away that I wouldn't be caught, I swung my crowbar directly at his head, knocking him to the ground. Holmes swiftly stole my tire iron and knocked out the two guards on either side of him while I took out a third.

"I've said it before," he said again, "but you are a very violent young woman."

My mouth dropped open to gape at him as I gestured wildly between him and his victims and back to him. "You. . . them. . . never mind. Mary! Change of plans! We have to reverse it, not overload it."

"What! The Doctor only gave me _this_ set of instructions to follow," she hissed as she waved a scrap of paper in my face. "I'm not a mechanical genius!"

"The term is Computer Geek, and it's okay because we just can't overload the Bridge. It's a _heck_ of a lot more powerful than we gave it credit for. We can wait for the Doctor to escape. How long should he take?"

"Not long," Holmes replied, watching Moriarty, "but there's no telling if they've encountered a bit of a hindrance. If they don't get here soon, we're going to have a bit of trouble involving undesired company." He nudged Moriarty's shoulder with his foot, resulting in a groan escaping from the villain's lips. "I'd give them two minutes, at best."

"That's right. Ridiculously fast healing rate. We could knock them out again."

"We'd have better luck deciphering the control panel. It can't be _that_ complex if Dorian could operate it." Holmes started investigating the panel, memorizing buttons and seeing if there was an owner's manual somewhere. Knowing Dorian, there probably would be.

"No," Mary Russell corrected. "His Shadow Soldiers operated it most of the time. Only they know all the intricacies."

By now, he had crawled underneath the panel, looking for something. "But they were created by him. He designed the Bridge. He knows. Unfortunately, he's locked up somewhere in London and we don't have the time to retrieve him."

We couldn't just ask one of the Shadow Soldiers for help. They wouldn't betray their beloved Dorian. They were too weak willed for that. There was someone else, however. A traitor. "We have something better. Donovan. His clone. He has to know _something,_" I insisted.

Holmes immediately understood. (I like that about him. I never have to explain anything except for when I don't make sense to myself. Anyway. . .) We stared hopefully at Mary Russell and she backed away from us, shaking her head. "No. I'm not losing control again. Him in here is enough," she spat, jabbing at her left temple.

"He doesn't have to take over. He can just explain –"

"That's not enough. The procedures require quick action."

"Then give him to me! Let him take control of me instead."

Holmes and Mary Russell stared down at me. It was rather intimidating having two very brilliant people look at me like I was insane. After a moment of consideration, they came to the same conclusion. "That might actually work." Within three seconds, they deprived me of all my silver, which Holmes took possession of. He might actually have a use for it. The last thing I took off was the necklace that Holmes had given me. I had been wearing it for so long that I noticed the missing weight and just had to hold on for a few more seconds. I loved its intricacies and fascinating design. When he chose it, I wonder if he grabbed it at random as he was apt to do, or if he searched for one that I might like. Either way, I loved it.

"I want that back," I told Holmes as I handed it to him. "Don't lose it."

He wrapped it in a spare handkerchief and carefully placed it in his breast-coat pocket. "You just worry about reverse engineering the Bridge. I'll see what's taking the Doctor so long."

"Alright. Have fun. Donovan, I'm ready."

Maybe it was just my being in my own world, but before, when he had inhabited me before, he seemed benign until he took control. Then I was truly terrified of him. This time, when Donovan made the leap into my head, it felt like bacon grease was being injected into my veins. That's not painless. It went from my right hand, up my arm, through my neck, and into my head, pushing the blood out of my veins and turning my skin white and blue. "Donovan. . ." I said through clenched teeth. "What do you think you're doing?"

_Sorry, Rhee. You've built up some sort of resistance to me._

"Then _hurry!_"

_That would kill you. Unless that's what you want._

"No!"

_Alright, I won't. Just one more minute. Also, you may want to stop shouting. You're starting to sound insane._

"With you in here, it's not hard to do so. _Ghkk!_ Be gentle!"

Suddenly, the pain was gone and a new weight resided in my head. _Ah. There. All settled. Now, what did you want me for?_

_That feels really weird_, I thought.

_Guard your thoughts, child. We are of the same mind_, he reminded me_. _Something I can't do. Of course, as he said it, I remembered how he and Dorian were so similar, and then the thought of Dorian and I being of the same mind made me physically shudder. _Remember, I do this for Dorian's sake only._

"Got it. Now, we need to reverse the Bridge so that it sends all these characters back to their respective worlds rather than spitting them out here. Also, it might help if we could get the Shadow – er – you guys out of their heads."

_Easily done. Pardon me._ Grey mist covered my sight and my control over my body was pushed aside. I didn't like it, but I agreed to do this, so I had to bite my figurative tongue and let him do his thing. My eyes felt heavier – not my eyelids, my eyeballs – weighted down with concentration, and my fingers felt spindly as they raced over buttons and switches like a pianist over his keys. Donovan spun a chair to the panel and sat down without missing a beat, and much more gracefully than I could have managed. Funny how it was my body, and it felt like someone else's with him in charge.

_So, what are you programming it to do?_ I asked. _Not that I would get it._

"Like you said, we're reverse engineering the Bridge. It will take every bit of literary goodness from this planet and put all the characters back into their original stories. The Shadow Beasts will be automatically stripped from them and sent to the world Dorian originally created for them."

_Dang. After all the death and destruction they caused, they get to go free to their own little paradise?_

"We're not inherently evil, Rhiannon. We are only able to follow what Dorian has us do. Moriarty wanted to destroy the world, Dorian wanted to obey his every whim, we had no choice in the matter."

_You did. You lied, fought back, had a mind of your own._

"But they did not. They were machines and as brainless as Mary-Sues. Their collective consciousness belonged to Dorian. I know your near-death experiences with them have given you a bias, but try not to be prejudiced when you think about their real situation."

_If they're like Mary-Sues, how are they supposed to survive without a plot? Because Mary-Sues die as soon as they have no more purpose. Shadow Beasts in their little world have no purpose, and so I assume they'll just disappear. What's the point in that?_

"I. . . don't know. Shut up for a minute, will you?"

But he should know better than that. You know better than that. My brain doesn't just shut off. It has an Energizer Bunny complex. I had to be focused on something, and without Snape's potion running through my veins anymore, that was much more easily accomplished. Donovan wouldn't look anywhere other than at the Control Panel screen, and I didn't get what we were looking at, so I had to use another sense. Smell: not much to smell, except my shampoo. Why did he have to have my hair in my face when he worked? Touch: buttons, buttons, buttons. Nothing there. Taste: toothpaste. Glad I brushed my teeth once upon a time. The only sense he hadn't monopolized was hearing.

Footsteps. There were footsteps, everywhere. Running, marching, walking at a leisurely stroll, stomping, skipping (?), footsteps. But what did they mean other than the facility we were invading was filled with people and soldiers and guards? They were confused, so they weren't uniting to attack or anything. Unless they were trying to surround us, but then they would have come in by now. There was something strange, though, coming up behind us.

_Donovan, do you hear that?_

"Yes, I do."

_Why aren't you reacting? Look around or something._

"It's just Mary Russell. You forgot about her, didn't you."

_It doesn't sound right._

"I can hear everything you can hear. It's nothing. Ms. Russell's just checking the other Control Panel to see if she can fix it at all."

_It's busted? Crud! She's from the 1920s. She can't fix it. Donovan, I really don't think that's it. How about you – I – we turn around and investigate – _

Just then, Holmes arrived with the Doctor in tow. Donovan stopped then to turn around and look at them. I could feel that my face was in some blank, stony expression. "Sorry we took so long" the Doctor apologized. "Hannibal Lector escaped, and then we. . ." he trailed off when he saw my distinctly hard gaze. "Is that Rhee in there?"

_Somewhere. Tell him he better still have that screwdriver if we're going to fix that panel. If he doesn't have it, I swear I'm going to kill him. It would be so cliche to lose it right when we need it._

"Somewhere in here," he replied. "She says 'hi.' Also, do you still have that screwdriver Rhee's thinking of? I don't know how it can help fix that other panel, but if you could get that working again, that would be great. We need to use it to monitor the power input on the Bridge."

From the Doctor's sheepish expression, I guess he didn't have it. His excuse would have something to do about Hannibal Lector. Either that, or Holmes stole it. _I'm gonna kill him, I'm gonna kill him, I'm gonna kill him._

"Let me see what I can do," the Doctor offered. He was quick to get to work, perhaps to avoid embarrassment. The story behind this must be _very _interesting, but I doubted he would ever tell it, even if he had the chance.

"Mr. Holmes, I need you to open the hangar doors back there. We're going to get a lot of traffic soon, so open it up completely. The controls should be on the left." When Holmes was gone, Donovan turned to Mary Russell. "I'm sure the Doctor could use your help."

"Just trying to get rid of everyone before you betray them?" Mary echoed my suspicions.

"I still have Rhiannon." He pointed to my head. "She'll know when to stop me."

_Will I really?_

She didn't like the idea, but went to help the Doctor anyway. He looked very flustered, like he needed all the help he could get. It seemed her first job was to go back and look for the sonic screwdriver. If I could have moved my hands, I would have thrown something at him. Preferably something heavy. I would have kept ranting, but Donovan turned back to the screen and continued to work on the program, using all his concentration on the task at hand, distracting my thoughts in the process. My head was already filled with the screen and the buttons and switches, but my consciousness was trying to become a part of it too. It was annoying, so I turned back to the sounds.

Nothing. I guess that was Mary I had been hearing before. If I could listen closely, I could hear tapping of keys from Donovan, a bit of tinkering from the Doctor, and Holmes' footsteps a mile away as he went to open the door. That was a _huge_ door. Why did it need to be opened? If it was just people and characters, seven feet high would do it. Why all the way? What kind of traffic were we expecting?

"We're getting close, Rhee," Donovan told me. "Another five minutes and this will all be over."

_How should it work? Do they go back through the books they came from, or do they go through here? It doesn't seem like the Bridge itself is a bridge, just a machine that allows access between their worlds and mine. It's more like a window._

"Why do you think we're opening the door?"

_Traffic. They're coming through here? That'll take a while. A _long_ while. How would they get here anyway? Would they pull a Noah and just be drawn to this place, coming two by two via taxi or airline? Or would they pull a __Doomsday__?_

"Doomsday?"

_You know, like in __Doctor Who__. When all the Daleks and Cybermen are pulled into the void because they have void stuff, and the Doctor and Rose are pulled too because they're tainted with it. A pull like that._

"Hm. Definitely a Doomsday. All literature in this world will be pulled into the Bridge, no matter how little. Even humans in this world with a Shadow Beast inhabiting them will be drawn, but hopefully the Shadow Beasts will be stripped from them and the humans will be saved. And before you ask, it would be dangerous for anyone at all from your world to go through the Bridge now. Without a world to go to, they would be nothing but a piece of meat in a blender."

_So, any touch of literary goodness at all would send them to their deaths. Like if someone had given himself some robotic limbs from another world._

"Exactly. Oh. . . _Dorian!_"

We stood up to run, but I hissed, _Sit down! We can figure something out! Make an exception or something._

He, or I was still running towards the open hangar door. "That won't work! The Bridge takes any and all forms of literature. If there was a Mary Sue out here, it would take her. If they've ever been to another universe, it would take them. There's no way I can protect him and reverse the Bridge!"

_If you don't, he'll die anyway! The world will be destroyed, plus some. Dorian sealed his own death when he created the Bridge in the first place._

"I can still protect him, tie him down or something. Where's that TARDIS?"

Suddenly, there was a blow to my stomach and an arm wrapped around my waist, dragging me backwards. I fought against it, trying to tear at its sleeve or hit whoever's face it was. "When Rhiannon started getting worried about Dorian of all people," Holmes told me, "I knew something was up. We locked him in a closet, and a fairly sturdy one at that. He should be fine, and if not, _c'est la vie._" Donovan's control became even fiercer and more antagonistic until I could feel him trying to transform my body into something monstrous.

_Don't you dare!_ I screamed, pushing some of him away. _You will not hurt him! YOU WILL NOT HURT HOLMES!_ But it didn't do much other than slow him down. Donovan was more powerful than I gave him credit for. He pushed past my fighting as if I were nothing more than an annoyance. How was I supposed to stop him?

But Holmes had something better: pocketfuls of silver. He held a handful out in front of my face, and Donovan saw it well. His perception of it turned it into a sharp and red image threatening to burn my face off. "I don't want to hurt her, but if it will save her world, I will. Get back there," he said in an acid tone that was worse than the silver. He sounded evil, in fact, and Donovan pulled back from his attack. My consciousness felt like it could breathe so much better. Holmes didn't release his grip as he dragged us back to the control panel.

He unwillingly sat down in our seat, and Holmes took the liberty of handcuffing my left hand to the panel before standing back and acting as a guard. (So that was what he was given earlier.) Prisoner again. Donovan grudgingly returned to his work, this time going as slowly as possible, most likely trying to think of a way to help Dorian. He was glaring at the screen, and I would have been glaring at him, but I was still trying to breathe. He wasn't just glaring, though. He was plotting. He turned to Holmes after a minute and asked, out of the blue, "Where's Moriarty?" Clever. He just kept finding ways to get rid of people. Holmes looked around and, finding no one as Donovan knew he would, started scanning the room. "He's escaped, hasn't he. Better go find him before he kills someone, don't you think?"

"Don't try to do anything stupid," he warned before running off to find our nemesis.

"Of course not," he mumbled sarcastically. "It's not like I'm saving the world or anything."

_Donovan?_ I asked as soon as Holmes was out of earshot. Not like he would have heard me anyway.

"What?" he snapped.

_I have a friend that was a Mary Sue once. Come to think of it, I was too. Hopefully the handcuffs will hold me. The point is, we need to multi-task. There's a cell phone in my right pocket._

"So you get to save a friend, but I don't?"

I had to bite my figurative tongue again and keep from expressing my opinion that Dorian deserved what he would get, but I didn't need him to blow up again. _I can't save Dorian. Neither can you. Just let me call her. She has no idea what's going on. Let me talk to her._

"Who made you the judge of who deserves what?" He was mad, but nonetheless, he pulled the phone out of my pocket, and let me dial. I placed the phone next to my ear, and my head tilted down to hold it against my shoulder so Donovan could work.

Two rings later, she picked up. "Hello?"

"Baylei? It's Rhee."

"Rhee? You're alive? Your parents have been hounding–"

"Sorry, but I don't have much time. Remember how you visited Lord of the Rings?"

The other end was absolutely silent for a few seconds. "How did you know about that?"

"I was there. The point is, you were a Mary Sue–"

"I don't comment on your writing abilities!"

"–and because of that, you're in big trouble. There's a. . . machine that's going to pull the attacking armies out of this world and send them to another universe. Unfortunately, that means it's going to try to pull you too. You're going to have to tie yourself down or hold on to something really tight."

"What about you? You were a Mary Sue too. You went and saw that detective."

"I'm handcuffed down. I'll be alright. Baylei, do you mind if you call Austin for me? He might be in trouble too."

"He didn't!"

"No, it's a long story – _aaugh!_" All around me, I could hear the echoing of the report of a gun, but I never heard the original blast. All I knew was that a pain was starting to grow in my left side, but it wasn't to the point where I couldn't think or act coherently.

"Rhee! Rhee! Was that a gun?" I could barely hear Baylei's voice. Somehow, I was still holding the phone to my ear. "Are you okay?"

"Um, yeah. I'll. . . see you later. Call Austin." I managed to hang up before I checked out what had gone wrong. For starters, I wasn't working anymore. "Donovan, are you alright?"

_Sorry, Rhee. _Then the grey vanished from my eyes, my power was restored to my limbs, and my senses returned to me, including the sense of pain. A horrible, stabbing pain suddenly filled up my left side with blood spurting from a hole in my back. Had I really been shot in the back? I fell off the chair and was left hanging by the handcuffs. In the process, I was spun around to see who had shot me.

"I apologize, Ms. Phan," said Moriarty as he reloaded his smoking gun. "It took me so long to find silver bullets. I hope you don't mind that I kept you waiting."

"You shot me!" I gasped. "You freakin' shot me! What. The.–"

"Yes, I shot you. Couldn't have you sending me and my armies back."

"_You shot me!_"

"We've established that. I've also got several more bullets that I would willingly put in your head if you don't cooperate."

My sight was going hazy with the loss of blood, but there was a part in my head that was writhing in pain. I guessed it was Donovan reacting to the silver. I could almost see Moriarty stepping closer to gloat. My death this time must be certain if he was daring to do so. At least I was coherent enough to think of something like that. Or morbid.

_Rhee, listen!_ Donovan's gasping voice said in my ears. _You just need to press a couple more buttons. I'll tell you which ones. I saved the best for last for you. It's your favorite kind: a big threatening red one that should never be pressed under any circumstances._

_But he'll kill me! I don't have a chance unless he gets knocked out again. Which isn't seeming very likely at the moment. I'm just a standing target handcuffed here._

_Figure it out, Rhee. It's your only hope._ His voice was nothing more than a whisper now. At least he was trying to save my life. I had no strength left, I was dying, and there was a gun aimed at my head. What was I waiting for? I swung up to the control panel and slammed the first big button I could see. Then all chaos broke loose.

First, another two shots rang out through the room, both deafening me momentarily. One hit the panel right above my hand, just barely missing it. Any closer and I would have lost it completely. I didn't know where the second one went until I saw Moriarty fall. No, he didn't die. That was impossible since the bullet came from my world, but it did put him out of commission. Right behind him was that impossibly frustratingly brilliant Sherlock Holmes tossing a smoking gun aside so he could run to my side.

"Rhiannon, are you alright? I'm sorry, you weren't supposed to get hurt." I vaguely saw that he made a bandage out of something – probably my tunic – to stop my bleeding. "I never should have lost him. I'm sorry about this," he kept babbling.

"I can't believe he _shot_ me. Can you?" I didn't notice how my hair had started whipping around in a room with barely a breeze until I started feeling like I was being pulled towards the Bridge. "It's starting, isn't it." When the ships in the hangar started to move towards the bridge like paperclips to a magnet, I knew I was right. They hovered for a moment before shooting over our heads into the Bridge. From what I could tell, they got through alright. A second later, I heard a woman screaming as she hurtled through the air. Mary Russell. She hit the window of the Bridge and the screaming stopped abruptly. So that's how it would work. "Are you next, then?" I asked Holmes.

"I'll try to stay here to make sure you don't die," he yelled over the noise of the Bridge and ships as he ducked under Moriarty's flying corpse-like figure. Good riddance.

"Thanks. Is the Doctor still here? He might be able to help." It was right then that all of Donovan's expected traffic suddenly showed up, flying through the hangar doors. Characters of all shapes and sizes came in a huge, never-ending swarm, using up all of the space they could find. Just as quickly as they arrived, they were sent through the Bridge in packs. Perfect timing for needing to find someone on the other end of the room.

"I doubt we can find him," Holmes said in a low voice. "You're going to be fine."

"Right here!" the Doctor suddenly popped up, surprising both Holmes and I. "I couldn't fix the panel. Hopefully it can survive without anyone monitoring its power intake." Then his eyes zeroed in on the bloody cloth holding my blood in. "You got shot? Let me take a look." I gasped in surprise when he moved the cloth, but he was quick to put it back. "It's very shallow, barely more than a graze. Your chain mail must have slowed it."

"I was wondering why you wanted it back," Holmes muttered.

The Doctor pulled something out of his pocket and pressed it into my hand. It was the bomb. "You're going to need to destroy the Bridge. These buttons set the power level – go for a three – and this one sets the time. Red button arms it. Don't forget." Then he picked up my phone off the ground. It was funny how all of us felt the Bridge's pull, but nothing else did. It was like it was in a different dimension. Or maybe we were. "As soon as people stop flying, call for help." Then he stood up and let go of whatever was holding him down. "Good luck, Rhee, Holmes." He took a couple running steps, and was ripped off his feet by the Bridge's pull and sucked back into his own world.

Holmes had another pair of handcuffs which he used to attach himself to the Panel. It was about to get worse, and when I compared the rate of released characters returning with the number still to be returned, I realized that this could take a long while. I stuffed my phone and the bomb into my pockets to make sure they wouldn't get away from me. Then the power really kicked in. Something sounding like a bomb or an exploding generator went off and Holmes and I were suddenly swung up over the panel and left dangling like fishes on hooks, our feet being pulled to the Bridge. Somehow, Holmes kept an arm wrapped around my waist, probably making sure I wouldn't suddenly break free and fly away.

For nearly a half hour, we were stuck in the same position, hanging on for dear life. My wrist was being worn raw by the handcuffs and we were barraged with characters of all shapes and sorts. It was very painful for the both of us. In all, this entire part was rather uneventful. Then the Bridge started to lose power. It was drawing fewer and fewer characters even though we were still being pulled just as strongly. It must have been our proximity. The decrease was quite noticeable.

"Holmes?"

"We're nearing the end. Almost all of the characters have been returned."

"Would now be a good time to call for help?" Holmes nodded, so I took out my phone and dialed for emergency services. What happened to me? I got shot in the back about half an hour ago. Where am I? I have no clue. Follow the flying people. How long until you come to rescue me? A half hour. I can wait.

I hung up and slipped my phone into my pocket. "How long?" Holmes asked.

"A couple minutes. It won't be long."

"Perfect. The crowds are thinning out now, so as soon as there's no one left but us in here, I'm going to let go. Then you have to shut off the machine. Got it?"

"Yeah. Big, red button."

"Is Donovan still with you?"

"He hasn't said anything since I was shot and I can't feel him in here. I think the silver killed him."

"Let me see your eyes." I looked into his piercing grey eyes, and I saw that he felt the same way I did. He didn't want to let go. "You have very. . . fascinating eyes." And then, in the most surprising move that day, he leaned closer and, well, I don't think I want to tell you.

"No one's coming," I finally said with tears in my voice. "I guess it's time."

"Yes."

"You never gave back my necklace."

"You're right." He found the handkerchief in his pocket and handed it to me. "I guess this is goodbye." He found a handcuff key in another pocket and unlocked himself before handing it to me. "Goodbye Rhiannon Phan. I'll never have another case as interesting as yours."

"Yes you will. I've read ahead. Goodbye Holmes."

Then he let go. I couldn't watch him leave through the Bridge. I didn't want to face it. As soon as I knew he was gone, I climbed back over the panel and slammed the button. I immediately fell to the ground, hanging still by my left hand. I didn't have the willpower or the strength to unlock myself. All I could do was sit there and sob.

When the emergency crews eventually showed up, they thought I was crying over my bullet wound. They cut me off the panel with bolt cutters and loaded me onto an ambulance. They had some powerful painkillers, and I drifted off into sleep.

* * *

I woke up two days later with stitches in my side and my family by my side. How had the hospital staff known who I was and who to contact? Probably my phone. Mom and Dad were asleep in chairs on my left and Bree was examining a card in a bouquet of flowers. "Bree," I whispered.

"Rhee! You're awake!" She immediately proceeded to smother me with a hug.

My ribs didn't like it, but I needed it desperately. I needed some family. "Yes, and let's try to keep Mom and Dad asleep. They have a tendency to freak out."

"But you got shot! They have a right to freak out. I'm so glad to see you! We all thought you had been killed. They had you all over the news as the one that saved the world. Either that or started the whole thing. We got that sorted out real quick. Anyway, you've got police protection now and search team looking for Basil."

"Basil's not here?"

"He never met up with us. I think he went and had one of your sorts of adventures. He'll be back, and when he does, we'll beat him up, okay? Baylei's been trying to call you, but you weren't awake, so we're flying her into London. Oh, and Austin's been trying to get in, but security won't let him. They say that unless he's your fiancé or something, he can't see you."

"Wait, how can we afford to pay for airline tickets and hospital bills and everything?"

"Oh, some guy named Mr. Dola's paying for it. He left you some flowers. Do you know him?"

"What? Let me see that." I took a look at the card. _The DOLA._ I sighed. It desperately needed a new name. "It's the Department of Literary Abuses. Holmes founded it and Mrs. Hudson runs it. They're paying for my recovery."

"That's nice of them. Should we wake up Mom and Dad now?"

"Sure. Now how am I going to explain everything?"

* * *

I never did bother trying to. The next day, Baylei Bryan was smuggled in as my cousin, and Austin Holmes proposed to me using a cheap plastic ring. I wore it proudly for the rest of the day before breaking off the engagement because we were too young to do this sort of thing.

Baylei brought me a book – a Mary Russell book. At least she's learning to not buy Canon Sherlock Holmes books anymore. Now how to explain that I already had all the current Mary Russell books. . . She was gushing about this site she had just discovered and how it was making all her book-buying so much easier, especially for college. Alibris dot com.

"Alibris?" I repeated. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know. It's Latin for Library or something."

"Alibris. It's perfect."

"I'll say."

* * *

Two weeks later, I was released from the hospital. Dad and Bree were already home, so Mom was going to take me home. However, I had some unfinished business to attend to out in the middle of nowhere, so she drove me out to Dorian's place. It was weird to be back in a place that was once so full of danger and now so empty and hollow. Mom drove straight through the hangar doors and up to the police tape twenty feet away from the Bridge that they hadn't bothered to take down. They wouldn't care if I took a little look around. I opened the door to get out, but Mom grabbed my arm. "You don't need to," she said. "Just look from the car."

"I'll be find. Could you just wait here, Mom? I won't be long." Unwillingly, Mom let go of me and I stepped out of the car, moving carefully so I wouldn't rip my stitches. I felt ridiculously sluggish with my injury. Mom was probably glad that I was sleeping now, but I think she preferred me alive _and_ uninjured.

The Bridge was just how I left it – cold, alive, and humming. The gauzy curtains were still swaying in the breeze as if there were no cares in this world or the ones behind it. I hadn't ever been close enough to the Bridge to really feel its pulsing energy. I stepped onto the Bridge and up to the curtains. I didn't expect to see anything but a window against the wall, but I pushed aside the white fabric anyway.

To my surprise, I found a Victorian sitting room, littered with various papers and completely organized by madness. I instantly recognized Holmes' sitting room, although, I couldn't remember if there had been a mirror in there before. In front of the fireplace, there was a pile of pillows upon which Holmes sat smoking a pipe. I wonder what he was thinking of. I knocked on the glass several times, but he didn't react. Still, I kept knocking.

A minute later, Holmes happened to turn his head towards the mirror, spotted me, and immediately ran over to me. He was yelling something, but I couldn't hear a thin. He probably couldn't hear me either. I dug around in my pockets for my mini-sharpie and wrote on the window: _olleH_.

He went to his desk to grab a pen, several sheets of paper, and a mirror so I wouldn't have to keep writing backwards. He scrawled a note and held it up for me to see, and even though it took a bit of interpretation, I read, _How are you? I hope the bullet wasn't too deep._ I shook my head and held up two thumbs. No, the bullet came out just fine and I'm doing great. _Is Donovan really gone?_ I shook my head. Holmes wasn't happy with that. _Give him back to Dorian, then. He shouldn't have to antagonize you._

_Dorian's dead,_ I wrote. The closet hadn't held him, neither did his robotic arms. Scotland Yard found pieces of his body scattered around the Bridge with no apparent weapon or cause of death. I'm glad I never saw it. When the police questioned me, I told them the truth. He had tried to take over the world using an army from parallel universes, and when they were sent back, he had been drawn with them. The portal or gateway wouldn't let him through. It must have chopped him up into little pieces. It was then that I was glad Holmes had handcuffed me down. It was also then that Baylei realized that I had saved her life by calling her.

_I'm stuck with Donovan and the copyright to the Shadow Beasts, but I'll be fine_, I continued.He was alive and well in my head, and quite pissed that his creator had died. In turn, I was offered ownership of the Shadow Beasts since they didn't have a real author anymore. I accepted because Donovan would have thrown a fit if I hadn't. (And that would have been very messy.) I made sure I wore my silver necklace on a constant basis after that. Donovan didn't seem like he was going to make any effort to move out of my head, so I settled in for the long run. I would have to learn how to live with him._ You?_

_Fantastic._

_The Doctor rubbed off onto you, didn't he._

Holmes answered by pulling something small and silvery with a blue light on the end from his pocket. So _that's_ where it went. I gave Holmes a disapproving glare. _Finders, Keepers_, was his reply.

"You are going to wreak havoc on the community with that thing," I said aloud, knowing he couldn't hear me. Maybe he could lip-read, I don't know, and I didn't care. _So what now? Back to the DOLA?_

_Yes. You could work for them, you know. I wouldn't be the Director. You'd have to work under Mrs. Hudson, but you'd like it._

Sounded good. Perfect, in fact. Speaking of the Department. . . I grinned like a giddy idiot as I wrote the name on the mirror. Holmes rolled his eyes, knowing that he wouldn't be able to stop me. _Alibris. Latin for Library. I think._

He took a double take at the name, giving it some thought. _That might actually work. I'll take it into consideration._

_Thanks._

_Do you still have the bomb?_

I nodded. I didn't want it at all, and I didn't want to detonate the Bridge. Without it, I wouldn't have a connection to Holmes. _After I destroy the Bridge, will I still be able to write to you?_

_No. Our communications were weakening the integrity of your world and strengthening the Bridge. To prevent another such disaster, we cannot continue to do so. Once the Bridge is destroyed, we will be permanently separated._

I stood in stunned silence for a couple minutes. I didn't notice when tears started streaming down my face. At some point, I put my sharpie to glass again. _Alright. Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes._

_Goodbye, Rhiannon Phan. I hope you'll save the world again someday._

I smiled through my tears. I hoped I wouldn't have to. I pulled Dorian's bomb out of my pocket, set it at power level two-and-a-half, set it for five minutes, and pressed the red button before setting it down on the Bridge a foot away from the glass. Then I turned my back on Holmes and walked away.

"What was that all about, honey?" Mom asked when I got back into the car, still crying.

"Just talking to Holmes."

"Do I need to smack him again?"

I laughed. Mom was great for easing up tension. "No. It's just. . . I'm never going to see him again, and I really want to."

"You know, we all need to learn how to say, 'Goodbye.'"

I was going to say something about how she just turned this into the cheesiest of all possible endings just by saying that, but I just gave her a smile. "Yeah. I'm ready to go. Let's hurry." So Mom drove away from the place where I got my first gunshot wound, had my first kiss, and lost my best friend, all in the same day. Mostly.

* * *

When I got back home, I received a letter. It was in a blank envelope and sealed with a fancy wax 'A,' like a Scarlet Letter. Inside was a stiff paper, written on in fancy black script.

**_Alibris offers you the opportunity of a lifetime. Join us as a Literary Agent._**

_Requirements: Graduation from the Alibris Agent Institute, strong interest in reading and writing, talented and experienced in both._

_Benefits: Save the world several times over, immortality, scholarships, health insurance, ridiculously high paying salary, 401(k) plan._

_If you choose to accept, please contact Mrs. Hudson._

I didn't waste a moment in dialing the provided telephone number. If this was by invitation only, I would have only one chance before this letter disappeared. I tripped on the keys as I typed it in, but somehow, I got it right. Mrs. Hudson answered on the first ring.

"Rhiannon Phan. You think you're ready to join Alibris."

"Absolutely. I even came up with the name, _and_ I've already saved the world once."

"That's nice, dear. So have I. We'll pick you up in thirty minutes. Be sure your affairs are in order, pack a few books, and stop by the library." Then the line went dead.

I ran into the house to pack my laptop, my katana whose presence I still couldn't explain, and all my Sherlock Holmes books. Bree found me stuffing my favorite pair of jeans and several shirts into a backpack while a fedora perched precariously atop my head. "Where are you going?" she demanded. "Another adventure?" The sarcasm and hurt was dripping from her lips.

"Going to Alibris. Tell Mom I'll be back before dinner. Maybe. If not, I'm at Baylei's. Love you, bye!" I dashed out of the house, into my car, and sped off to the library.

In my haste, I was twenty-three minutes early. With nothing to do for a while, I opened up a book and immersed myself in Victorian London for a couple minutes. Before I could get too far, though, there was a tap on my window. Austin Holmes was looking down at me, smiling at some joke I had missed. Unless I was the joke, and I was completely lost. I got out of the car to talk to him. "Hey," I said. "What are you doing here?"

"I told Mrs. Hudson half an hour was too long for you." He was still laughing. Apparently my enthusiasm was a little over the top.

"You work for Alibris?"

"Yeah. My entire family's been working there since my grandfather founded it."

"Wait. Holmes is your _grandpa?_ You're from _his_ universe? That's amazing. So where do you fit in at Alibris? And more importantly, how old are you?"

"Only Twenty. I'm a recruiter. We've been in the market for someone with your talents."

"My talents? Or was Holmes making sure I got a job."

"Both. I think. So, since you're ready, do you want to go now?" I gave him a dead-pan stare that told him how dumb that question was. "Alright. Get your stuff." As I gathered my things (and handed a few to Austin), he called whoever was picking us up. "Scotty, we're good to go. And yes, a teleport would be very appropriate, if you would."

* * *

_Thus ends part four of my trilogy and my adventures on my world. Thank you very much for reading and enjoying. Preferably the 'enjoying' part. And now I finish off this chapter with those two hateful words that signal the end of my stories._

_Rhiannon Phan_


End file.
